Lady of Gondor
by MartaL0712
Summary: The adventures of Mellamir, sister of Boromir and Faramir, before and during the War of the Ring in Gondor, Fangorn, and Rohan. Focusing on family dynamics in the royal houses of Gondor and Rohan.
1. Prologue

Prologue  
  
In the beginning there was the One, Ilúvatar, and nothing else; only the Void. And then the One created the Valar and the Maiar, "angels" of Middle-earth. And in the beginning, it was good.  
  
The Valar and the Maiar were shown what the earth would be, and they came into the Void to create it, a home for Elves, Men, and all the other races who would live there. There was a first light, a pure light, unlike any the world has ever seen since. It came from the love of Ilúvatar for all things being created. But Melkor, a Valar whose heart had been corrupted by the desire for power, hated everything good and pure, and so he destroyed this first light.  
  
And the other Valar fought an aweful war against Melkor, when much that they had created was destroyed. Yet in the course of time it was shown that even those things created by those whose hearts were corrupted could in the end turn to good.  
  
And then came the Others. The Elves, doomed to live forever unless slain in war or by other mischance, and the Men, doomed to die after but a short span of years. The Dwarves, delvers of stones, great miners; and the Ents, guardians of the forests. And the Hobbits, half-grown hole-dwellers of great heart. Some are good and some are evil, but all are weak compared to the Valar and the Maiar, the first-born of Ilúvatar.  
  
For good wanes, and evil wanes, and in these failing years nothing, neither good nor evil, is as strong as it was in the beginning. The first light perished, and the sun and the moon and all the stars in the heavens are poor substitutes. Yet in the twilight a flame unpredicted burned bright against the encroaching shadow. Such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere. Thus it has always been.  
  
And thus it was, that the hope of the world could be borne in something as small and insignificant as a child.  
  



	2. Just What the Healers Ordered

Chapter One: Just What the Healers Ordered  
  
April 2996; South of the Pelennor  
  
Mellawen looked out across the Pelennor toward Osgiliath. She was only seven so she'd never seen it, but she had heard her father Denethor describe it often enough. He talked about Osgiliath's beautiful buildings and wide streets, once greater than Minas Tirith's. Now, though, Osgiliath's impressive edifices were reduced to ruins. Part of that was Sauron's doing. When the ancient Númenoreans first built the city they thought that the Dark Lord Sauron was gone forever, but they were wrong. He had concealed himself in Mirkwood, and after the Elves and Wizards drove him off he returned to Barad-dûr, in Mordor. Mellawen had never seen Mordor, but if it was anything like the descriptions of Osgiliath she had heard from the soldiers, she didn't want to. Their descriptions of the way Osgiliath was today were very different from the way her father had described it to her: great piles of rubble everywhere you looked, deserted houses, and nothing but silence. No children running in the streets. No merchants shouting, "Fresh fish! Get your fresh fish!" No iron-toed boots scraping the stone walkways as the guards marched by.  
  
Yet she wasn't going toward Osgiliath. Mellawen rode with her mother Finduilas and her father Denethor across the Pelennor, to the south. Her uncle had a farm there, just outside the Rammas Echor. The people here had suffered from Sauron, Mellawen's uncle not least of all, but somehow the land seemed untainted. The early April sun shone down on the endless fields. The occasional farmer plowed his land, but they were few and far between.  
  
"Where are all the people?" Mellawen asked.  
  
"Far away," her father answered. "No one wants to live close to Mordor, so they all left."  
  
_Is that what lay across the river?_ she wondered. Mellawen could envision it. A dark land of smouldering volcanoes, rocky wastelands, and burned plains, full of ors and other hideous creatures. But she couldn't imagine that place being so close by. Here, the sun shone down across the fields and farms, the occasional tree dotting the horizon, perfect for climbing. Birds flew in the sky, squirrels looked down from the trees, and moles poked their heads up out of the ground to see the strange party riding by. Twelve horses: Mellawen and her mother on one, Denethor on another, and ten guards, their mail shirts glistening in the morning sun.  
  
Finduilas hardly noticed the countryside, beautiful though it was. She hadn't travelled out here in twelve years, but it still felt like her second home. Not long after her sister Ivriniel had married Arabôr the newly-weds moved out to a farm. He didn't want to raise his family in the city, and Ivriniel agreed. At first Finduilas visited them often, maybe twice a year, helping her sister with her baby boy. Finduilas liked life at the farm and enjoyed helping with the cooking and cleaning, as she had sometimes been allowed to do growing up in Dol Amroth. But not long after Ivriniel's second son, Farlin, was born, orcs had attacked and killed Ivriniel. Denethor refused to let his wife travel outside the city after that, and Arabôr had to agree. Times were just too dangerous.  
  
"I've missed this place," she mused. "It's beautiful out here." Denethor grumbled something under his breath. "Well, it'll do Mellawen good at any rate," Finduilas snapped. Denethor couldn't argue with that.  
  
The whole trouble had started last fall around the harvest time. Gandalf had arrived from the West and introduced himself at court. Of course, Denethor already knew him. Years before, Denethor's father Ecthelion had named Thorongil, a ranger from the far northern country of Arnor, as his advisor. And Thorongil had been good -- a bit too good. This Gandalf had supported Thorongil, used him to try to take over Gondor, but then Thorongil left, and so did Gandalf. Denethor hadn't seen either of them since, until Gandalf re-appeared. Gandalf wanted to study Gondor's books; Denethor still didn't trust him but couldn't see the harm in allowing him to do that.  
  
Gandalf had gone down to the libraries, followed by many of the city's children. Most soon lost interest, but Mellawen was fascinated. She had spent most of the winter in those dank basements with the wizard. By late January she'd developed a slight cough, and by mid-February the healers were starting to whisper pneumonia. "Too much book dust," they said. "Send her out of the city. This Gandalf will be the death of her."  
  
"Ruddy traitor, that brother-in-law of yours," Denethor said at last, the edge in his voice revealing how much he loathed the man. "We shouldn't even be coming out here. He's the one who decided to leave. But he _is_ family, after all, and Mellawen _does_ need to get out of the city. If the cursed turncoat and his fresh air can save Mellawen ... well, I might as well give him the chance. Can't do much harm." He knew that Finduilas was right, that Arabôr could very well save his daughter's life, and that his wife loved the country out here. But that didn't change the simple fact that the man had betrayed Denethor both as an officer and as a friend, and the old wound still burned.  
  
"Denethor, he lost his wife --"  
  
"And that's my fault, how exactly? These are dangerous times, Finduilas. People die. If he was a true Gondorian he would have fought on, defended other men's wives. And she wouldn't have died anyway if he would have just stayed in Minas Tirith."  
  
"Be that as it may --"  
  
"I'm not having this conversation, Finduilas. He's a traitor, and it's his decision to stay out here. He could return any day; I'd take him back." But then Denethor looked over at his daughter, her eyes following a blue jay swooping through the air, and his face softened. "Whatever he's done, he can help Mellawen. But that doesn't mean I have to like him." He stopped his horse, and the others halted. "Lailagond -- ride with Finduilas and Mellawen to Arabôr's house. We will wait for you here." He wouldn't let his wife and only daughter ride unescorted even for a quarter league; it was too risky this close to Mordor. When Lailagond returned some time later, Denethor and his guards turned and rode back to Minas Tirith.  
  
Finduilas and Mellawen stood outside of the house for a long time. Mellawen thought it fabulous. She had always heard that the truly fine people lived in the cities, especially Minas Tirith, where there were banquets, libraries, plays, recitations, and dances. But Minas Tirith only had two public gardens: one in the Houses of Healing, where those who weren't sick were chased off by the matrons; and the Pavilion of the White Tree, a series of statues, fountains, and flower bushes centred around a dried-up old phantom of a tree. The great families of the Seventh Circle sometimes had small private gardens, but they were nothing like this. Here she saw rolling fields, tall stalks of wheat and ears of corn, cows and sheep grazing, and far in the distance the Anduin. Yet what struck her most was the sunlight: it wasn't the sharp glaring white she'd seen in the city where it bounced off the marble buildings; instead here the warm yellow light settled lazily across the land.  
  
Mellawen carried her quit, down pillow, carved eagles, toy horn, and everything else she had brought from Minas Tirith up to the attic. On her way back down she wandered through the house. Taking a flight of stairs down she came to a short hall. On one side she saw a messy room with two hastily-made twin beds, her mother's saddlebag lying against one of the walls. The room on the other side had a great four-poster bed, a writing desk, and a framed portrait of a young man and woman with their baby boy. She guessed the woman had to be her aunt Ivriniel and was surprised by how much the man reminded her of her father -- but then these old families often intermarried.  
  
She walked down the hall and passed the stairwell into the wooden-floored parlour, twice as big as either of the bedrooms. In the far corner Mellawen saw a loom and spinning wheel next to a basket of odds and ends. A couch, arm chair, and two straight-backed oak chairs surrounded a low oak table that stood on a rag rug. On the wall was a large open fireplace. Both of the bedrooms had their own fireplace but much smaller than this great hearth.  
  
After taking it all in Mellawen left the parlour. She knew that her mother was downstairs because she hadn't heard her come up, so Mellawen went down to the ground floor. At the bottom she saw three doors. One, she knew, went out to the yard. The second was a solid oak door and open just a fraction. She poked her head in and saw hay spread all over a packed dirt floor. A great store room lay towards the rear. It was almost empty but still held some fruit, left-over potatoes, and winter barley. On the back wall of the store room Mellawen found a giant stone box; she slid the lid away and saw ice and frozen slabs of meat. Imagine that, and with summer quick on its way! But no Mother, so she walked out, passing the chicken coop, the stalls where the cows and sheep must stay, and the wall with pegs holding a bit and bridle for the horse she had not yet seen, back to the hallway and through the third door. As soon as she opened it a wave of warmth hit her, and she saw her mother.  
  
"Now this is a sight if I ever saw one!" Finduilas exclaimed. "Leave it to Arabôr to make a mess of things when there's no woman to look after him. Mellawen, dear, you finish cleaning off the table; I'm going down to the spring to wash out this cooking pot. Filthy!" She nodded over at the huge pile of dishes.  
  
Finduilas returned a few minutes later with a clean pot filled with fresh water. "Now we will just set this to boil," Finduilas said. "There's some carrots, potatoes, and celery in the pantry; they'll make a good stew." Before long they had the water boiling and the stew thickening.  
  
"Mother, that's a lot of food," Mellawen said. "How are we going to eat it all?"  
  
"It's not so much for five."  
  
"Five?" Mellawen asked. "Mother, you must be tired, there're only two of us."  
  
"What?" Finduilas exclaimed. "Your father didn't tell you? No, of course not; he won't speak Arabôr's name. Mellawen, whose house is this?"  
  
"Why, Father's, of course," Mellawen answered, a slightly confused look on her face.  
  
"Yes, in a way," Finduilas replied. "All land belongs to the steward until the king returns. But who lives here? That's a different question. Arabôr's been farming this land for over fifteen years now. Started not long after Borlin was born. He --"  
  
A door flew open. "Why, there's no fire in here, Farlin!" someone shouted from the entranceway. "You said you saw smoke!"  
  
"Oh yes there is," Finduilas retorted, walking out the kitchen door. "There, on the hearth. Arabôr!"  
  
"Finduilas!" Mellawen heard someone cry. A moment later Finduilas returned with her brother-in-law and two nephews.  
  
Mellawen, who had been stirring the stew, now looked quizzically at the strange men standing in the doorway. "And this must be Mellawen," Arabôr said to Finduilas. "I'm sorry the house is such a mess; I wasn't expecting you until next week."  
  
"Yes, but Mellawen's cough is worse," Finduilas replied. "The healers did not want her in the city another day." She smiled at the stranger, a twinkle in her eye. "And of course I wasn't going to argue with them. There wasn't time to send a letter. I hope you don't mind?"  
  
"No, of course not," Arabôr answered. "My home is your home. Besides, eyes can see a woman's touch is needed around here."  
  
"Indeed," Finduilas said, trying hard not to laugh.  
  
"I will be moving my things up to the attic tonight, of course. You and Mellawen will be staying in my room."  
  
"I assumed I would be staying in the boys' room and Mellawen in the attic," Finduilas answered.  
  
"No," Arabôr replied, "I think it's better for you and Mellawen to be together. My house may not be as luxurious as those of the Seventh Circle, but I'll be damned if I'm going to send the steward's daughter to the attic."  
  
"As you wish," Finduilas replied.  
  
"Who are you?" Mellawen asked, eyeing the man suspiciously.  
  
"I'm sorry, dear," Finduilas said, smiling. "In all the excitement I completely forgot you had never met him. Mellawen, this is your uncle Arabôr. Those boys are Borlin and Farlin, your cousins."  
  
For the first time Mellawen noticed the two boys standing behind her uncle. Borlin her mother had called a boy, but he was really more man than child at seventeen. His brown hair hung limply on his shoulders, and the muscles he developed working in the field showed through his cotton work-shirt. Farlin on the other hand Finduilas called a boy by right. He was only twelve years old, and though he had always lived on a farm he didn't have his brother's build.  
  
"There's a stew cooking," Finduilas said as she surveyed the boys, "and we've made some bread, but I'm afraid I don't have anything for after." Just then a wide smile spread across Farlin's face. He ran off into the barn and came back a few minutes later dragging a pail that was clearly too big for him. Arabôr walked over.  
  
"A bit ambitious, aren't you?" he asked, smiling. "Think you can finish all those? But that's a capital idea. Fresh wild berries and cream will make a fine dessert."  
  
Finduilas sent Arabôr, Borlin, and Farlin upstairs to wash up for dinner. When they came down ten minutes later their hands and faces were scrubbed clean, their hair was combed, and they had on fresh shirts. As they came downstairs the front door opened, and in came the farmhands Arabôr employed. They lived in a cabin not far from Arabôr's house and often took their meals with Arabôr and his sons. By the time the men arrived Mellawen had finished setting the table and Finduilas was dishing the stew into wooden bowls she had found in the cupboard. That evening they enjoyed their first meal as a family.  
  
Time went on. At first Mellawen stayed inside most of the day, helping her mother around the house, but Finduilas tried to get her outside as often as he could: watering the cows that grazed nearby, gathering berries from the woods, bringing in firewood. Mellawen's mother, however, had a better outdoor treat planned for her and, as it happened, for Farlin as well.  
  
"Arabôr, I was thinking," Finduilas said one evening over dinner. "Look at Farlin here, so worn out after a day of work. He's too small to toil like you and Borlin do."  
  
"He's twelve years old," Arabôr replied.  
  
"That's not what I meant," Finduilas answered. "Look at him: he doesn't have the build for it. Your son's a dreamer, not a farmhand. You'll wear him out. And anyway, Mellawen needs more time out of the house; that's why we came here, after all. Would you let me plant a small garden near the house? Your own vegetable garden is nice, but we could have lots of fruit, and flowers, and a few herbs. I'm sure I could manage it if I had both Mellawen and Farlin to help me. And it's not too late in the year to start, is it?"  
  
Arabôr pondered this for a moment. "No, it's not too late, but where in Ilúvatar's name will you get the seeds? You know I'm not allowed in Minas Tirith; that's why we didn't plant a garden years ago. And if you think I'm letting you go by yourself, in these dangerous times --"  
  
"Wouldn't dream of it," Finduilas answered, a sly smile creeping across her face. "And besides, there's no need. I brought my own with me."  
  
"Well, of all the -- why aren't they in the ground yet? And by all means, take Farlin if you think you can find a use for him. He really is too young to work in the fields, and half the time I don't know what to do with him. I only took him out there to begin with because he's too young to leave here all day by himself. And after what happened to his mother ..." His voice trailed off.  
  
So that settled it. Life fell into a pattern they were all happy with. It was the beginning of June, and Borlin and Arabôr needed to be in the fields all day long, too far out to return for lunch. Finduilas prepared their meal the night before, and they'd be gone before Mellawen even woke up. She, Farlin, and Finduilas ate breakfast together. Then Mellawen and Farlin worked in their garden, first hoeing and planting and later weeding and chasing off the birds. Finduilas stayed inside doing all that had to be done to keep the house running smoothly. When Mellawen and Farlin saw smoke later in the morning coming from the chimney they knew they had an hour to play before lunch if their work was done. Most days it was.  
  
After lunch Finduilas got out her books, hidden treasures from Minas Tirith. When the sun shone down on the fields they did their lessons sitting under a big tree on the stream bank, but on rainy days Finduilas taught them their letters in the parlour, sitting in front of the warm fire. Mellawen had seen letters when she watched Gandalf poring over the books in her father's libraries, but she didn't know what they represented. Farlin had heard his father read from books, but as he had never tried to see the pages he didn't even know what letters looked like. By harvest time, however, both Mellawen and Farlin could write their names and read the stories Finduilas wrote out for them at night. 


	3. Anniversaries

Lady of Gondor Ch 2 - Anniversaries  
  
Sept 2996; South of the Pelennor Fields  
  
--------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Spring faded into summer and summer slipped into fall, until a boy of fifteen could hardly see over the edge of the cornstalks and the wheat looked full and golden. If a stranger happened by he'd see many people beginning to harvest and probably would wonder why this one family was so late in starting. Arabor and Borlin should have started quite a while ago, but Arabor could never bring himself to begin until he had commemorated Ivriniel's death. Since Arabor she had died in late September Arabor and Borlin always began their harvest well after their neighbours.  
  
This was the twelfth year that Arabor had sat around eating cold leftovers. That was how they commemorated Ivriniel's death-day for many years. At first Arabor became so overwhelmed with grief that he couldn't even look after himself, let alone his sons. As the years passed his pain dulled but by no means disappeared, and Arabor preferred to sit in quiet reflection. Borlin, however, felt a need to celebrate his mother's life, and the year after he turned eleven he decided to do just that. He woke up early and made a picnic lunch of crusty bread, steak pies, broiled potatoes, mushrooms in a chicken gravy, and cherry cakes, and put it all in a picnic basket. Then he went and woke up Farlin, dressed him, and carried him all the way to their mother's special spot. Ivriniel and Borlin often went there when Borlin was a child. A tree grew along the dried-up creek bank, with branches strong enough to sit in, and the hills with its steep cliff wall hid the spot from even the closest farmhouses. Several years earlier some of the area farmers had built a dam to help keep the creek from flooding, and as the river dried it left all sorts of rocks and fish bones along the dry riverbed downstream, and up above a still pond where Borlin and Farlin liked to swim. They spent those death-days playing in the fields, swimming in the pool, eating the good food, and just remembering. After all, Farlin had only been a baby when Ivriniel died, but Borlin remembered. He owed it to his brother to help him know the mother he'd never known.  
  
Of course their Aunt Finduilas didn't know about any of this. All she knew was that the corn grew taller, the wheat thicker, and the nights colder. One day after dinner she asked, "Arabor, shouldn't you and Borlin start harvesting? Winter's well on its way, you know."  
  
No one said anything for a long moment; no one dared. Finally Arabor replied, "We never bring anything in until we're past the anniversary of Ivriniel's death. Somehow it doesn't seem . . . fitting."  
  
"Of course, of course," Finduilas said. "I'm sorry, I completely forgot about that. So how are you going to commemorate the day?"  
  
Another long silence ensued, after which Arabor said, "The boys go off by themselves. A picnic of sorts, I suppose."  
  
This caught Borlin off guard. "You know about our, um, little outings?"  
  
"Of course I know. I'm your father; it's my job to know." Then he turned to Finduilas. "Mellawen is welcome to join them, of course. You too."  
  
"I asked about you, not your sons."  
  
"I'll remember her in the only way I know how. In the only _place_ I know how: here."  
  
They finished eating, then went on to their evening work, saying nothing more on the topic.  
  
That night a great storm hit the farmhouse, one of the worst Mellawen had ever experienced. Certainly the worst since she'd left Minas Tirith. Out here all the thunderstorms seemed so much worse, with the open fields for the thunder to rumble across instead of the close buildings to break up the sound. The rain pounded and a lightning bolt struck not a quarter-mile from the house, splitting a sapling in half. In between the rolls of thunder, Mellawen could hear muffled conversation out in the parlour.  
  
"Arabor, I really think --" Finduilas started before she was interrupted by a loud burst of thunder.  
  
When at last the storm subsided, Arabor was still answering, " -- doesn't seem fit, damn it, it just doesn't --"  
  
This went back and forth for quite some time, but what with the booming storm, the creaking of the wood of the house, and the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof, Mellawen could hardly follow a single sentence.  
  
That next morning Arabor was much quieter than normal. He seemed to be struggling with some decision that had been made for him rather than one he had made. Not until Finduilas looked at him pointedly did he ask Borlin, "When you boys go off together, what exactly do you do? What were you planning to do tomorrow?"  
  
Borlin looked nervous, afraid that Arabor might be offended by his sons having so much fun on so serious a day. But he had to tell the truth; his father would never believe a lie. "Well, we usually pack a good lunch and lots of snacks. Then we go off to Mother's special place, you know, on up the creek a bit." As he talked, Borlin became less and less nervous. They weren't doing anything wrong; this was how Mother would want to be remembered. He continued more confidently, "And we just play around, and sometimes we swim up above the dam. Then in the afternoon, when it gets hot, we lie under the tree and talk about Mother. Farlin never knew her, so there's lots for me to tell him."  
  
Everyone looked over at Arabor, waiting for some kind of a response. After what seemed like ages, a smile crept across his lips. "Well, it's been raining so hard that it won't be safe to swim. And if it's going to be worthwhile, you'd better start cooking."  
  
"Are you sure?" Finduilas asked.  
  
Arabor nodded hesitantly. "It is against my liking, but I suppose you're right; it is time."  
  
The garden was already harvested, but Finduilas had a special job for Mellawen and Farlin: "Berries," she said, handing them buckets, "and lots of them. All you can find. Tomorrow will be a day to remember if I have any say in it." By the time they returned, Finduilas had lunch on the table. And what a lunch! That was a light and cheery meal, full of the smell of good foods, but not a taste of the fresh bread and baked treats Finduilas was making for tomorrow. They dined well, though not on what they wanted.  
  
After lunch, it was off with their clothes and into bed for Borlin, Farlin, and Mellawen: Finduilas wanted to wash their clothes. Borlin and Farlin got undressed and into bed immediately, and a few minutes later Finduilas came in. "Borlin, where did your father go?" she asked.  
  
"I don't know," Borlin replied; "he just said he had business."  
  
"He didn't go -- not to Minas Tirith?" Finduilas asked.  
  
Borlin frowned. "He didn't say."  
  
"Well, this really is a bother," Finduilas sighed. "I was counting on him to haul the water and keep the fire going."  
  
"Oh, I can take care of that," Borlin offered, "don't worry."  
  
"Wearing what?" Finduilas asked sceptically  
  
"Father's got another change of clothes. I'll wear them."  
  
Some time later, well after dinner, Arabor came back. He pulled the cart behind the shed and more than a few minutes later came into the parlour.  
  
"Arabor!" Finduilas exclaimed. "Now just where have you been?"  
  
He smiled coyly. "Just getting a surprise for tomorrow. You'll see." He looked fondly down at Mellawen. "Did I ever tell you -- your eyes remind me of Ivriniel's? I remember her standing on her balcony, watching the morning sun and dreaming. You look so much like her. Maybe tomorrow I can tell you more about what she was like."  
  
Not long after that they all went to bed; after all, tomorrow promised to be a big day. And finally tomorrow came! The sun woke Mellawen. It was the first time since she had come to the farm that she had been allowed to sleep that late. When she finally opened her eyes Borlin was sitting at the foot of her bed.  
  
"So you finally decided to wake up, sleepy-head? The sun's been up for hours, and it's time you joined it. Nay, raced it. Your mother's ironed your dress, and Arabor brought back good blood sausages yesterday. Can't you smell them?"  
  
"I smell them," Mellawen replied. "Is that the surprise?"  
  
"Aye, or part of it at least. Hurry, get dressed now." And he left her to it. Sometime later, she came down the stairs to find her mother in the kitchen, but the rest of the house was strangely empty.  
  
"Where's the sausage?"  
  
"So your cousin told you about that, did he? He is already at the field, along with Arabor and Farlin, and the sausage. Hurry, now is the time to run." They raced out of the house and down toward the field until Mellawen almost fell over from exhaustion. Finduilas scooped her daughter up in her arms and kept running.  
  
"Oh, this is good!" Finduilas said to Mellawen. "I haven't run like this since I was a little girl. 'Twasn't ladylike, they said. But today we run." They sprinted across the fields to where Borlin sat under a tree smoking a pipe while Arabor and Farlin set a table laid with a bright tablecloth, putting out platter after platter.  
  
As soon as Borlin saw them coming he lay down his pipe and called to his father some distance away, "They're here!" Arabor and Farlin stopped what they were doing, and Finduilas set Mellawen down on the ground.  
  
They had breakfast: the blood sausages, muffins Finduilas had made the day before, and some of Farlin's and Mellawen's berries. At last, Borlin put down his fork and said, "Mistress Mellawen, do you know what today is?"  
  
"Why, it's September 23, of course." Then she thought for a second and added quickly, "The day your mother died."  
  
"And the day you were born," Borlin added. Mellawen smiled at that. She had of course remembered that today was her birthday, but she had not wanted to detract from her aunt's death by mentioning it. "You were born eight years ago today," Borlin continued. "Anniversaries are important things, cousin. Today we celebrate not only Ivriniel's death-day, but also your birthday." And at that, he clapped twice.  
  
Farlin jumped up, ran back behind the table, and came back carrying a simple garland. As he got closer, Mellawen saw that it wasn't just a circlet of weeds but a crown of the most beautiful pale blue flowers from their garden. "This is for you," he said, "as you are queen of the day. Kneel, please." Mellawen obliged, and Farlin placed the flowers on her head.  
  
Finduilas then walked over to the table and picked up a single book, a handsome volume, green leather with gold thread to bind it together, and pages of the finest vellum. Mellawen took it anxiously and opened to the first page but was surprised at the strange letters staring back at her.  
  
"Mother, I can't read this."  
  
"Of course you can't; not yet, at any rate," her mother replied. "It's Sindarin, a language the Elves speak. But you'll learn to read it. It's time you started your education in earnest."  
  
"Really? You'll teach me?" Finduilas nodded. Many of Gondor's nobility taught their children Sindarin, as it was considered a mark of culture.   
  
Mellawen sat down and started thumbing through the book immediately, until at last Borlin cleared his throat. She put the book down and looked up. "And now for my gift. I don't know you like my brother does, nor do I know much about girls in general, so I'm at a bit of a loss. But tell me your wish and I'll do it if I can."  
  
She thought for a second, and her face lit up -- then fell again, almost as quickly. She looked at her mother, a bit unsure. "I couldn't ask . . . it's so . . . boyish."  
  
"Mellawen," her mother asked, a confused look on her face, "what are you talking about?"  
  
"Well, it's what Gandalf was always doing. And I saw Borlin doing it just now, so I know he could teach me, but it's . . . Borlin, would you teach me to smoke a pipe?"  
  
Whatever Borlin had expected the steward's daughter to ask of him, it surely wasn't smoking lessons, judging from the look on his face. Mellawen had no way of knowing it, but Gandalf's smoking caused no small controversy in Minas Tirith: dwarves smoked, perhaps, but precious few men do. The only exceptions within living memory were Thorongil, who must have learned the habit among his travels through the wild lands of the north, and those soldiers who had learned the art from him, including Arabor. Borlin and Farlin had asked their father to teach them after seeing him doing it, and Arabor largely overlooked it, seeing they hadn't had the advantages of a mother or a civilized upbringing. But for Mellawen -- completely out of the question!  
  
But slowly a sly grin spread across Arabor's face. When was he ever one to bow to custom? "Any habit that's good enough for your famed Gandalf is good enough for my niece. Borlin, you'll start Mellawen's lessons this afternoon. I hope you brought enough weed?"  
  
"I suppose, but --"  
  
"You did say any wish within your power, did you not? It is now within your power. I give you permission. So after lunch I expect you two to get to it. Now, Mellawen, there's one gift more, and that gift is mine. If you will just look on the other side of that hill, over near the dam, I think you'll find a surprise."  
  
They all climbed over the hill which dropped down to a steep cliff. Down past where the river would have been stood the tree under which Borlin and Farlin usually sat when they came here. On every limb, a beautiful hair ribbon hung with some small treasure attached, treats ranging from candied nuts to the finest toffee, a stuffed bear, and, stranger still, pieces of rag all bunched up and other sculptures Mellawen couldn't identify.  
  
"Arabor," Finduilas said angrily, "you said you didn't go to Minas Tirith, but if you didn't, then where --"  
  
"Lithienal," he said, "an old fort about seven miles from here. Recently someone opened an inn that sells little treats for the soldiers' wives and children, and those of area farmers -- candies, hair ribbons, wooden dolls, that sort of thing. A few weeks ago Gandalf sent me a letter asking me to be there on the twenty-second of September, so I went. A boy no older than Farlin appeared, said he had gifts -- those sculptures and the rags." He turned to Mellawen. "Now, the figures are fireworks. If I touch a flame on one of the strings at the end, they will explode into a thousand colours. At least that is what your wizard friend said in his note. But he warned me to wait until tonight so we can see them better. Those little wads of cloth, they're another mystery. When they are placed in cold water, they change somehow. Farlin, will you run up to that pool and get us some water? Let's try them out."  
  
They all walked down to where the bank was lower, then climbed down and walked back up to where the old oak stood to get a closer look. Borlin started handing Mellawen some of her presents, and Farlin went to the pool. He filled his bucket with the good, clean water, then started back down. At first none of them noticed the water trickling through the heart of the dam.  
  
It was an old dam, built years ago, and the area farmers had been talking for some time of repairing it; some of the stones had started to loosen. Whether Farlin accidentally kicked some small stone out of place or whether the dam just chose that moment to break may never be known. However it happened, suddenly two or three leaks sprung through the heart of the dam, then four, and then five. Arabor's eyes filled with a look of blind panic. Finduilas stood there for a moment, paralysed with fear. Borlin, without being told, dashed to Farlin, grabbed him, and threw him up on the bank of the hill, lower here than where they had stood; neither Finduilas nor Arabor dared, fearing to disturb the dam further. Borlin pulled himself up onto the hill and yelled to Farlin, "Stay where you are!" as he ran to their supplies for rope; they might need it. Arabor grabbed Finduilas and forced her toward the cliff face, hoisted her onto his shoulders, and urged her upwards. Her skirt caught on the cliff face, and Arabor hastily tore it off, allowing her to climb up in her petticoats. At last she reached the top, but she couldn't reach Mellawen to pull her up, let alone help Arabor.  
  
"Climb that tree over there," Finduilas cried, sweat already coating her face. "It's strong; it will stand." So Arabor and Mellawen quickly climbed the old oak, seconds before the water rushed around them. In ordinary weather that tree might have lasted, but with all the rains it didn't stand a chance. Borlin came running up, panting, carrying two lengths of thick rope. Finduilas threw the end of one out to Arabor; he caught it and tied it to a strong branch of the tree he and Mellawen had climbed. Borlin set his foot against the roots of the tree near the cliff's edge, steadying the limb and bringing it near the bank.  
  
Finduilas, by now badly shaken, managed to tie the second rope around the trunk of the tree behind her and threw the free end over a thick branch well over her head. She then threw one end to Arabor. He missed, and the rope sailed through Finduilas' outstretched fingers. As the rope turned back over the river she caught it in one last desperate grab, then threw it back toward Arabor. This time he caught it. Arabor gave the rope to Mellawen, then gathered her into his arms and threw her toward the shore, into Finduilas' waiting arms. She started to throw Arabor the rope again but stopped. "Wait!" she called over the rushing water, and she turned to Borlin.  
  
"I'm not strong enough to catch your father," she said hoarsely. "Here, let me hold that first rope. I can steady the tree, but your father would knock me over and swing back over the river, perhaps fall in." They switched places, and Borlin threw the rope to Arabor. This time his father caught it on the first try. He inched slowly along the branch, the tree groaning under his weight. Arabor was about to swing to safety when the branch gave way with a loud crack. Suddenly Finduilas was not holding onto a steady tree but a loose branch being pushed down into the raging river by a full-grown man. She did not have time to let go or do anything; a split-second later they both were in the river, the raging flood pulling them downstream. Mellawen stood beside Borlin, near the edge of the bank.  
  
And then, time stood still. The water raged around Arabor, but he held tight to the rope Borlin had thrown him, and the river raced past him. Finduilas had grabbed hold to his waist as the river pulled her past, and she, too, fought the current. The tree on the bank bent, groaned, and finally the branch snapped. It flew across the bank toward the river and caught Mellawen's ankle, knocking her off-balance. Borlin reached for her, but too late; she fell over the bank and down into the river.  
  
For what seemed like a very long moment she stayed there until, some time downstream, her small head bobbed through the surface and Mellawen gasped for air. Before he knew it, Borlin was running along the bank with a long branch he had gotten from somewhere; he didn't know how, or when. Somehow Finduilas, holding Mellawen, was able to grab the branch and fight the current for several more seconds. Borlin thought they might just win, and his heart leaped in his chest. But then all hope was lost as the branch gave way and broke in half. 


	4. Awakenings

September 2996; the Houses of Healing  
  
Mellawen remembered being pitched about, then being wet, her dress becoming heavier and heavier, dragging her down. Suddenly something heavier than her dress kept her under water, and something else pulled her up. But she could not see anything clearly; the world seemed to be spinning around her. At first everything was hidden in the muddy creek water, then when she was pulled up all she could see was a blinding yellow, then the mucky brown again. She was suddenly thirsty, and she could not breathe, but something kept her from opening her mouth. Things seemed to be circling all around her; her world spun out of control, but for some reason she did not spin into that whirlwind. What kept her afloat, she could not have said. People were shouting but they seemed far away, and she could not hear what they were saying. The roar all around her was so loud! Then she stopped moving and felt bark under her arms; someone wrapped her arms around a limb, and she held on as tightly as she could. Then, without warning, there came a huge crack -- and then darkness.  
  
She lay still for a long time, fading in and out of the light. How long she could not have said, though it seemed like an eternity. "You've lost her"; "She's fine"; "Keep her warm"; "What a loss"; "He's coming." Finally a cold white light penetrated her dark shroud. This was not the soft warm light of summers in the country, but the harsh, piercing light of a near-winter sun, reflected off the gleaming white marble of Minas Tirith.  
  
"Is anyone there?" Mellawen asked drowsily. "Where am I?"  
  
"You are in the Houses of Healing, and someone is indeed here."  
  
Mellawen forced her eyes open; too quickly, it seemed. "Ai, the light!" she exclaimed. Someone walked over to the window and pulled a sheer red curtain closed. Without the severe light, Mellawen could now see her room. She lay in a canopy bed, propped up on goose down pillows under a silk sheet and a thick velvet blanket whose black and purple squares were decorated in silver thread with scenes from Gondor's history: the arrival of her people from Númenor, the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, the fall of the Dark Lord Sauron, and the King's riding away to the North. An ash table sat in the corner, upon it a clay bowl full of water. Heat warmed her stiff limbs from a fireplace nearby, and from a vase beside the bed came the fragrance of freshly cut flowers. Still visible through the drawn curtain was a lush garden outside, neatly pruned.  
  
Minas Tirith used to have many beautiful public gardens. Now, however, most of them had either died off or been replaced by buildings, with two exceptions: the Pavilion of the White Tree and this garden between the Houses of Healing. The White Tree was very important, of course, a gift from the Elves. The only White Tree that Mellawen had ever known, however, was old and thin, a mere phantom of its glorious ancestors. But this garden! The trees seemed to shimmer in the morning sun, and their leaves, red, gold, orange, and silver, decorated the ground below. The sages said that this garden still had the power to heal the soul as well as the body, and Mellawen believed it.  
  
At last Mellawen turned from the beautiful garden to look at her visitor, who was now staring into the fireplace. She thought him a stranger, some page of the city or a knight still in training; he wore the mail, black tunic, and grey trousers that marked the apprentices of the Tower Guard. But as he turned to face her Mellawen recognized the brown hair, the proud eyes, the strong shoulders.  
  
"Borlin!" she cried. "Where did you get those queer clothes?"  
  
"Well, doesn't that smart," her cousin retorted, but his eyes were gentle, and a soft smile played at his lips. "I saved your life not once but twice, and then I brought you all the way to Minas Tirith, to these Houses of Healing, and all you can say is, 'Where did you get the funny clothes?' No 'Thank you,' no 'I'm glad to see you, Borlin' . . . "  
  
"But I am glad to see you," Mellawen replied, "and no one has told me what happened, so I didn't know to thank you. Won't you? Tell me, I mean. You said you saved me from the river. What happened?"  
  
"Well, you know that," Borlin answered, smiling weakly. "That dam broke, and one way or another -- I'm not really sure how, it happened so quickly, but you were there -- Father and your mother both ended up in the river, and you fell in -- that was really silly of you, Mellawen -- so I ran downriver and pulled you out. Farlin ran and got Mablung, the farmer who lives closest, and his wife helped us tend you. She said your only chance was to get back to Minas Tirith, where the healers could help you. So I brought you; Farlin stayed with Mablung and only came yesterday when your father sent a guard for him. The healers said it was pneumonia again, and they weren't sure if you'd ever wake up. But it looks like they were wrong. Guess Gandalf showed them!"  
  
"Gandalf? He was here?"  
  
"Yes," Borlin nodded. "He's been here for three days now, watching over you day and night and saying all kinds of strange things in a language neither I nor any of the healers could understand." Looking closely at his cousin, he paused, then smiled with relief. "Whatever he said, it worked."  
  
After a long pause Mellawen asked the question Borlin had been waiting for. "Mother, and Uncle Arabôr, they're . . . "  
  
"They remained underwater much longer than you, and I tried, but --" He looked down at Mellawen, and his forced smile melted away. "I -- I couldn't save them," Borlin said, brushing the tears from his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Mellawen; I've failed you."  
  
The colour drained from Mellawen's face, and she sat in shock for a moment. She shook her head, muttering to herself. "No, no . . . " Borlin looked over at her nervously, not sure what to do, when suddenly she sat up. "Mama, Mama," she whispered and took in a sharp breath of air.  
  
Borlin ran over and sat behind her on the bed. He pulled her into his lap and rocked her back and forth, rubbing her shoulders and whispering, "It's all right, Mellawen, I'm here," into her ear.  
  
"W-w-where's -- where's Papa?" she whimpered.  
  
"He'll be here soon," Borlin said soothingly. "Soon, Mellawen." At last he calmed her enough that she stopped crying, save the occasional teary hiccough. He laid her back down in bed and tucked her in again. He sat back down in a chair by her bed until she fell asleep a little while later.  
  
~*~  
  
September 2996; the gardens of the Houses of Healing  
  
The next afternoon found Mellawen and Borlin sitting in the garden. She was wrapped in a warm mantle, and Borlin wore a uniform similar to the one he had worn the previous day. Afraid of the silence, Mellawen put question after question to her cousin, asking about life growing up away from Minas Tirith and how he liked the city, carefully steering the conversation away from any mention of her mother. At last she said, "I am a little confused on one thing. Back at the farm, Arabôr said he could not come into Minas Tirith. But here you are, not just in the city but in the tunic of the Guard. And I know that if a father is banished, so is his first son. So how are you here?"  
  
Borlin's sad face contorted with a look of anger, almost quiet rage, but then it passed. At last he said, almost to himself, "He never told you. He should have, long ago. But I can see why he wouldn't." He looked down and saw Mellawen's questioning gaze. "This isn't my story to tell. I don't know all that happened, only what Father told me, but I can see that Denethor probably won't tell you, not for a long time yet at least. And with Farlin and I in the city, people will start talking." He sighed. "Father wasn't banished from the city; he was exiled -- self-exiled." But then he hesitated. "It's a sad story, and a long one; you are tired, I'm sure, and should be resting. Why, if the Master Healer finds out, he will have my head . . . but if you are sure . . . " Mellawen nodded her head anxiously. "Mellawen," he continued at last, "did you know we are cousins?"  
  
That seemed a strange question, and unrelated to anything and everything, but easy enough to answer. "Of course, my mother is your mother's sister. Or was --"  
  
"Yes, yes," he said, "but we are cousins again. Denethor was Father's brother."  
  
Mellawen sat very still, letting the reality of Borlin's statement sink in. The sun set, fading from bright white to glowing red, and still Mellawen did not respond." Brothers? Mellawen thought. Father hardly ever mentioned him. Why, if he said Arabor's name more than once I don't remember it, and even then he didn't speak of him as a brother. Mother's brother-in-law, yes, but brothers?  
  
Borlin sighed. "It's hard to believe you lived your whole life here and never knew what happened. But let me start at the beginning. Yes, they were brothers; they grew up together here in Minas Tirith. They studied under the same tutor growing up, and of course they both learned to wield a blade and draw a bow; it was expected. When Father turned twenty Grandfather made him Captain of the Tower Guard.  
  
"Now by rights that title should have gone to Denethor, him being the older son. But there was a fire in his blood, and your father refused to sit still. He took command of a corps of rangers and led them across the Great River. Those days, though, are a matter of history. Father was named Captain of the Tower Guard, and that suited him fine; he'd defend the city as best he could, but he would never kill, if he could help it."  
  
"Denethor found his adventure in the east, killing orcs and storming Southron strongholds; but Father, he turned West. He had always loved Elves, though I'm not sure where he first learned of them, and he wanted more than anything else to meet some of them. Elves used to visit Minas Tirith often, you know, but they had stopped coming long before Father and Denethor were ever born. Grandfather of course refused to let him leave Gondor, but then a curious thing happened. Denethor had to choose a wife." Borlin chuckled to himself. "That shouldn't have been a problem, from what Father's told me." He leaned back against the benchand tried to relate it to Mellawen.  
  
~*~  
  
2951; the Pavilion of the White Tree, Minas Tirith  
  
The doors burst open, allowing brilliant spring sunlight to stream into the dark, musty library. Denethor stood on the step, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the bright light. Then he saw her: Lindala. She was a Southron girl two years older than him at fifteen, whose family had taken refuge in Minas Tirith the winter before when their tribe was attacked by Sauron's armies. Denethor marched toward her, down the steps to the plaza.  
  
Calithor, hearing his brother's determined footsteps, stepped out from behind the heavy oak door he had been holding open for his brother and let it slam shut. By the time his eyes had adjusted to the bright light well enough for him to see what was happening Denethor was a third of the way across the square. Calithor ran to catch up with him. They were both in such a hurry, Denethor to reach Lindala and Calithor to catch up with Denethor.  
  
At last Calithor reached Denethor and matched his stride, trying to determine where they were going. Then he saw Lindala and the glazed look in Denethor's eyes, and he grabbed his brother's arm. Denethor looked down at Calithor, noticing him for the first time. Both boys had been in such a hurry that neither saw where they were going. Now they found themselves standing in the Pavilion of the White Tree, which everyone avoided. The tree was dead - it had died waiting for the king like the rest of Gondor - and its white bark was falling off. Lifeless branches hung all around them, isolating them from the bustle of the city. Denethor and Calithor stood there on its roots for what seemed like quite some time, surrounded by the ghosts of ages long past, both of them afraid to move. At last Denethor whispered hastily, "Let's get out of here," and they ran through the wilted limbs. In their haste to get away from that ghoulish tree they ran right into the guard walking toward them.  
  
"Your father wants to speak to you," he said sternly, and Denethor and Calithor followed him into the palace. Just before they walked in, Denethor turned back and looked for Lindala, but she was gone. The brothers were marched past the throne room with its black marble pillars and white marble walls, its narrow windows letting in sharp shafts of white sunlight, the long-empty throne of the king, and the Steward's chair, where their father usually sat. That chair, however, was empty, and the guard led them on down the winding hall. At last he opened a heavy oak door and marched up the winding stairs that led high into the tower. The marble steps felt cold and unforgiving underneath their boots, and the stairway, lit only by the occasional torch, felt foreign to boys used to study and play in the bright city below. At last the guard opened another oak door. He motioned for the boys to enter, then pulled it closed.  
  
As the door clicked resolutely shut behind them Denethor and Calithor looked around. The floors, ceiling, and walls of this room were all cold marble, and the room was dark except for the dying fire in the fireplace. On the walls hung battle standards and portraits of the kings and stewards of Gondor, imposing men all of them. Denethor's and Calithor's father Ecthelion sat at a table upon which a faded map was laid out, his back to the boys as he stared into the fire. At last he demanded, "What were you thinking?"  
  
"I . . . " Denethor began, but his father cut him off.  
  
"You have your pick of any girl in the city," he asked, "and you had to pick her?"  
  
"It's not like she's an Elf, father --" Denethor replied, but his father cut him off.  
  
"She -- is -- not -- like -- us. She is a Southron. You see how many of them fall to the Shadow! And their customs are not like ours. They treat their women much more strictly than we do." Then he turned to Calithor. "And you, where were you in all this?"  
  
Calithor turned away; he didn't trust himself to look at Ecthelion. For the first time in his life he hated his father, loathed him. Suddenly Calithor was to blame for Denethor's impulsiveness, something that was just not his fault. But Denethor always had been the favourite, that was plain enough. Ecthelion turned back to the map and his waved his hand, excusing the boys, and the quickly left the study.  
  
Even then the brothers had had a strong sense of honour. Calithor never confronted his father and continued to play the part of the good son as best he could; yet he never forgot that conversation, either. Denethor, for his part, never talked to, smiled at, or looked for Lindala again. There were other maids to choose from.  
  
~*~  
  
September 2996; the gardens of the Houses of Healing  
  
Borlin frowned slightly, thinking back on the story. "I still don't understand what happened next. One day Denethor was always surrounded by a crowd of the most eligible young ladies, to hear Father tell it, and the next he had eyes only for Finduilas. She must have had some of her brother Imrahil's Elvish look, and I'm sure she had other charms as well, but what set her so above the other maidens in your father's eyes, I'm not sure . . . he idolized her. Unfortunately, her father saw the way Denethor looked at her, and he knew he could demand anything for the right to marry her. And he named a high price: he wanted not one but two daughters married. Denethor could marry Finduilas if Father agreed to marry her sister, Ivriniel."  
  
Mellawen noticed the misty look in her cousin's eyes and retrieved a kerchief from a fold in her dress, but Borlin shook his head. "Finally," he continued, "Father had the bargaining power he needed. He and Denethor went back to their father. Denethor wanted Ecthelion to force Father to marry Ivriniel, but Father refused -- unless he got to visit the Elves." Borlin paused, his brow furrowed. "You know, I think he really loved her; he just wanted to see the Elves so badly that he would use anything he could as bargaining power. Ecthelion let him go -- he had to; he never could deny Denethor anything he wanted -- and so Father met the Elves at last.  
  
"He never would say what he saw there, but he came back changed. He walked with an inner grace and talked in a calming tone. And his skin -- it glowed, somehow: a soft blue, not cold and sickly, just other-worldly. That summer he married Mother, and Denethor of course married Finduilas. Not long after I was born, but you were a while in coming. Your father always saw it as a shortfall on his part, his inability to produce a son. He loved you, but he needed an heir, and he felt he had something to prove; so he threw himself with amazing vigor into his work.  
  
"But the real trouble began when Father came back from the Elves. You know the saying, 'Go not to the Elves, for none meet the Eldar and return unscathed.' He refused to answer to Calithor and would only respond to the name the Elves had given him: Arabôr. And he begged his father to let him leave Minas Tirith; he said he couldn't stand the harsh glare of the city, didn't see how he ever stood it. That next summer, three days after I was born, Ecthelion gave him a mighty gift: a farm south of the Pelennor Fields and a reprieve -- but not a release -- from active duty in the Guard. We moved out not long after that, Father, Mother, and me; of course I was only a baby at the time --"  
  
"Away from the city?" Mellawen asked incredulously.  
  
"Yes, away, out into the country," Borlin replied. "This last week has been the first time I have spent in Minas Tirith, at least since I was old enough to remember it, and I have to say, it's -- different. But, yes, we all moved out to that farm not long after I was born. If things had stayed that way, everything might have been different."  
  
He looked lovingly at the garden around him, but then his eyes caught the glimmer of the buildings beyond, tall and so serious. He sighed. "This is a beautiful city," he continued. "But it is still a city. You were at the farm a few short months, and think how much good it did you. I have been there my entire life. Your city takes my breath away. Yes, it is impressive, but it is more than that. Minas Tirith is too bright, too impressive. It burns the eye." He paused, tears in his eyes. "Mellawen, you have to understand. Denethor didn't mean Father any harm, but times were hard. The Shadow was growing, and forces were moving. Your father had to marshal an army, and he needed a lieutenant. So he summoned Arabôr. Father didn't want to go, but he didn't have a choice; remember, he was still a captain, at least on paper."  
  
~*~  
  
2984; south of the Pelennor Fields  
  
It was late at night, and the farmhouse south of the Pelennor was dead quiet. Arabôr's family lay sound asleep: baby Farlin in his crib, and six- year-old Borlin and his mother Ivriniel snuggling in the bed she usually shared with Arabôr. Below the quiet night was broken by the creak of a door swinging open, but the three sleepers upstairs did not wake. If any of them had, they might have heard the slow plodding feet climbing up the stairs, the crackling of the fire as it stirred when the door opened, or the soft snap that followed a few seconds later.  
  
An arrow whistled through the air, followed by the quiet thud of a steel arrow tip piercing flesh and the orc's high, piercing shriek as it fell. Borlin sat up immediately, looking frantically around. He heard many other sounds then: the wails of his baby brother, the door slamming below as his father ran in from the yard, his father hurrying up the stairs to see if he had any family left to save. Borlin tried to get up to comfort Farlin, but he couldn't; the orc lay dead across his legs, his black blood spilling out across the blanket.  
  
Arabôr rushed into the room, threw the orc-carcass off of Borlin, then ran over to hush Farlin. Borlin got out of bed to see what was going on, then made his way over to his mother. She could sleep through anything! Borlin stood on his tiptoes to reach her, placed his small hand on her shoulder, and shook as hard as he could. "Mama, wake up," he said, quietly at first, then more loudly. "Papa . . . " he began, but then he looked at his mother's face. Calm, it seemed, almost as if she were dreaming. Her open eyes looked toward the fire, but they were blank, taking none of it in.  
  
Borlin shrieked. "Mommy, Mommy, wake up, Mommy . . . M-mommy, wake up!"  
  
Arabôr turned from the crib and knelt beside Borlin. He pulled his son toward him, rocking him back and forth. "It's all right, Borlin, it's . . . " Then he looked at his wife and saw her blank, glazed eyes. Arabor walked over to her and shook her shoulder. He ran his thumb against the back of her neck, and a moment later his head dropped in resignation. He kneeled and wept into his wife's nightgown. At last he reached over and placed his fingers on Ivriniel's eyelids, then closed them and said solemnly in Elvish, "From Ilúvatar to Ilúvatar."  
  
~*~  
  
September 2996; the garden between the Houses of Healing  
  
We never figured out how he . . . " Borlin began. Suddenly the tears he had been holding back began to fall. He started to wipe his cheek with his shirt sleeve only to remember too late - after he cut himself - that it was made of mail. Mellawen handed him the kerchief she had produced earlier.  
  
"You'll have to get that looked at," she said wryly. "But at least you're in the right place."  
  
Borlin laughed grimly. "My Mellawen. Of course you understand now -- Father wouldn't have anything to do with Minas Tirith or her wars, and least of all his brother. Especially if it meant having to leave his family; he was afraid to leave us alone at all, sure that something would happen to one of us. Denethor tried to reward us for Father's service, but Father wouldn't have it. Blood money, he called it. And he was probably right, a bit.  
  
"When Father resigned his commission, Denethor severed all ties with him. He thought the changes in his brother were some sort of Elvish sorcery. You see, Denethor and Father had grown so different that they hardly recognized anything of themselves in each other. Gondor is the most important thing in the world to your father. It protects everything he held dear, and without Gondor he could never keep you or your mother safe from all the evil in the world. But to Father, Gondor was a tool to protect what he really cared about. When he rode off to war with Denethor, it was for us, his family, but then Mother died anyway. No, if fighting for Gondor meant leaving us unguarded, he would stay with us.  
  
"Who was right? I'm not sure. Maybe they both were. All I know is, if your father had been at the river with us when that flood happened, perhaps he could have helped save your --"  
  
"But it wasn't Father's fault," Mellawen interrupted.  
  
"No, you're right," Borlin said gently. "It wasn't Denethor's fault. Men go to war, and sometimes they die -- or suffer worse than death, in Father's case. But does that make it any better? I don't think so."  
  
He sighed, and they were silent for a long time. What could they say? At last Borlin broke the silence.  
  
"They'll be expecting me in the towers." Borlin stood up, kissed her on the cheek, and left. 


	5. Remembrances

Lady of Gondor Ch 4 - Remembrances  
  
Please see chapter one for full header.  
  
Sept 2996; Pavilion of the White Tree, Minas Tirith  
  
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The next afternoon, Farlin came to have lunch with Mellawen and brought her a dress to wear to the funeral. At the eleventh hour, Halbarath, a palace servant, came for her and escorted her to the Pavilion of the White Tree. It was a chilly late September afternoon, the hour before dusk fell. Winter seemed finally to have found its teeth. The weather, however, had not stopped a large crowd from coming out, even the most finicky of old ladies; quite the contrary, they had shown up in uncommon abundance.  
  
Two tables of the finest ash had been placed on either side of the White Tree, and on each table lay a body wrapped in a white shroud. Between them stood Denethor, the only surviving male member of the House of Denethor. Mellawen walked over and took her place beside him, now Lady of Gondor. When her mother died, Mellawen became the last female of the House of Denethor, and so the title passed on to her, young as she was. Off to the side stood Borlin and Farlin, the only surviving family of Arabor, the brother of the Steward. Borlin wore the garb of the Tower Guard, and Farlin wore a grey wool tunic on which had been embroidered the Emblem of the White Tree; a band of silver and mithril tied his long locks back into a loose pony-tail. Farlin smiled, looking down at his fine clothes; he looked like one of the princes his father had often told him of. But then he felt his brother's hand on his shoulder and stopped smiling; this was a serious occasion, and he should look like it.  
  
Mellawen wore a fine black dress, but no one could see it: by orders of the Healers she was to be wrapped in a fur to protect her fragile lungs, so her father ordered a cloak be made from a warg's skin, killed a few weeks prior. She shivered to think of it; wargs were very fierce, and many hunters had been killed by them, she knew. And now she was wearing a skin from one of those feared beasts. The cloak dwarfed her, and the rough hairs rubbed against her raw cheeks. Denethor himself wore the black garb of one in mourning under his old raiment of the Tower Guard that he wore at all state functions.  
  
This was a private family ceremony in many ways, but it was also an event that interested people besides just the family. According to the custom of the land, a youth of the city took a stick and drew a circle roughly ten paces from the White Tree. The family stood in the circle alone, while the rest of the people stayed outside of it. Mellawen looked first over to her cousins standing just inside the circle, then out at the growing crowd all around her, her eyes gleaming with excitement to see all the people dressed in their finery.  
  
After a respectful moment of silence, a man named Falastur stepped forward. He was short for a Gondorian at just over five feet, with deep, long jet black hair slicked back with bear oil, and he wore a simple black cloak, a tunic similar to Farlin's, and grey cotton trousers. He looked directly at Denethor, then lowered his head and said, "With your leave, my lord." Denethor nodded, and the man stepped inside the circle and faced the crowd.  
  
"In the years of Ondoher, descendant of Elendil," he began, "the king's party was attacked by wild men, and the king and his two sons died in the ensuing fight. The crown then passed to Earnil, captain of the Southern Army, and on his death to his son Earnur. Earnur, if not for the interference of the Elf-lord Glorfindel, would have smote --"  
  
"Now the right high Falastur will tell us of the death of Earnur, cousin, and the rise of the Stewards, of which Master Denethor is a descendant, and Miss Mellawen as well." The voice echoed from the back of the crowd, and everyone turned around to see Ioreth, who worked in the Houses of Healing, talking to some woman they didn't recognize as a native of Minas Tirith. Reluctantly they turned around to face Falastur, though they kept their ears trained on Ioreth.  
  
People had begun to politely say she was a little old to still be serving the healers, yet she continued her work there. Her muscles were over-taut and her skin hung in flaps under her chin, and in other places, one would imagine, but she was always well-covered, even in the full heat of summer. She and her widowed sister lived together in the Fifth Circle, but Ioreth at least kept the low accent of those living in the First Circle. This made sense to those who knew her family: her father was a soldier who had proved valiant and as prize had chosen to marry one of the ladies-in-waiting to the Wife of the Steward at the time, Denethor's mother. So Ioreth and her sister were recently sprung from those ranks completely devoid of class.  
  
"Mercy, but he likes to talk, don't he, cousin? I don't think those men he's naming took half as long to live as he does to talk of them. Well, you see that girl up there? Her name's Mellawen, and she's Denethor's daughter. And you see those boys there? Well, their blood's good enough, I reckon, but their manners -- did you know that until this very week, they'd never stepped foot inside this city? Of all the -- and they get to stand right up front in that High Circle and me, who's worked her whole life in the city, I'm stuck back here!"  
  
The people, knowing Ioreth would be ranting for quite some time, turned their attention back to Falastur. Borlin stared attentively at Falastur, but Farlin dragged his boot through the dirt where he stood, spelling out his name, and Mellawen stifled a yawn. "For we are gathered here today," Falastur droned on, "to honour the memory of two of the House of the Stewards, and to mourn their passing. For Finduilas, wife of the Steward, has left our lord Denethor. And though fate took her before she could complete her great task of giving our lord the steward a son --"  
  
"Well, I never! Cousin, don't you go thinking that all of us in the city are as uncouth as all that! Now this man's talking nothing but falsehoods . . . who's he talked to that gives him the right to say such things?"  
  
"Denethor, I suppose," Ioreth's cousin answered.  
  
"And as if one untimely death was not enough of a tragedy," Falastur continued, "the lord's brother died as well. Alas, he did not die defending, but in a river, far from all help and honour. Yet Calithor --"  
  
"Arabor," someone muttered under his breath. It was Farlin. He had stopped drawing in the dirt and was looking straight at Falastur, a look of determination on his face. Denethor looked at him in disbelief and asked, "What did you say?"  
  
Farlin met his uncle's eyes. "My father's name was Arabor." Mellawen looked up at that; she was surprised that Borlin would allow her cousin to speak out of turn, but Borlin was not making any effort to constrain his brother's tongue.  
  
Even the wind was still for what seemed like a very long time, and something glittered on the Steward's cheek. Was that a tear? The man who hadn't cried at the news of his own wife's passing, or of his brother's, was now crying at the mere mention of a name? But it appeared to be so.  
  
"Now that boy," Ioreth commented, "hain't got no manners what I can see. They should keep folks out of the circle don't know when to be quiet." But Denethor looked at Farlin, walked over to him, bent down, and kissed him on the top of his head. Farlin looked up at his uncle, a grateful smile on his face. His uncle understood and would make everything right. Denethor turned to Falastur and affirmed, "My brother's name was Arabor."  
  
Falastur didn't quite know how to handle this; he'd never heard the name before, since it hadn't been spoken in the city for years. He looked first to Farlin and Denethor, then to the steward's advisors just outside the circle. Perhaps this was some ill-timed joke? But the advisors looked just as confused as Falastur, and Denethor just looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to proceed. He cast a last questioning glance to the minister of protocol, then moved ahead to the next part of his prepared speech.  
  
"Yet regardless of how they fared in life, in death we remember them for who they were and are: members of an ancient house, last descendants of the noble men of Numenor. As such, we owe them all honour." Eight men, nobles from Denethor's courts stepped into the circle, and each stood at a corner of one of the two tables. They reached below the table surfaces and lifted the tops off the legs. Then those eight carried the biers out of the Pavilion and down Rath Dinen, the silent street, toward the ancient tombs.  
  
No one spoke a word, not the eight carrying the biers or the family walking solemnly behind them, nor the other people in the procession. Each carried some offering, a loaf of bread, a piece of fruit, some small parcel of meat or a flask of wine. The eight carried the biers into the Steward's House, down the rows of enshrouded corpses from ancient years, to the tables beside Ecthelion and his wife. There they laid the bodies with their venerated family and came out again. Denethor then went in with his daughter and two nephews. They knelt in front of the bodies and laid boughs of evergreen at their sides. That tree came from Numenor, now under the sea but at one time the proud home of men, and even in these later days men who still remembered their ancient homeland often gave dead family members boughs of the precious trees to guide them to their home beyond death.  
  
Denethor leaned toward his dead wife's ear and whispered, "Safe journey," then rose. Tears in his eyes, he stood by the door. At length Borlin also rose, his eyes downward-cast, and led Farlin over to the door. This was not the time for tears, Farlin knew, but he could not hold back the single drop now rolling down his cheek. Mellawen kneeled in front of her mother for a long time and in the end kissed her hand and exited the tomb with her family.  
  
They stood together on one side of the entrance to the tomb as the people entered solemnly, offered their food to the deceased and left. Since this was their first visit to Rath Dinen, Mellawen, Borlin, and Farlin were intrigued by the ancient houses and monuments to great men now long dead. Most other people, though, having seen the street too many times, were anxious to leave. When everyone had presented their offering they walked back to the Pavilion of the White Tree. After every one had re-assembled and observed a respectful moment of silence, Falastur continued.  
  
"Yet when a family member is lost, a family member is gained, so our sages say. Many times we cannot see this right away; it takes years for a marriage or birth to replace the lost ones. Today, however, we have an immediate answer. In the circle here we have Borlin and Farlin, the two sons of Cal -- Arabor. They lost both their parents in service to Gondor, their mother dying as their father served the realm, and their father as he preserved the Steward's Line by saving Mellawen from certain death. As repayment in part the Steward --"  
  
Just then, Denethor stepped forward, quite unexpectedly. The quiet conversations that had wafted through the crowd stopped. Denethor held up his right hand for Falastur to stop, then motioned with his left hand for Borlin and Farlin to join him in the heart of the circle. When they stood before him Denethor continued. "My boys, children of my brother -- become my sons. Kneel." He drew his sword and touched the broad side to Borlin's shoulder. Borlin recoiled slightly at the feel of the cold sword but quickly righted his posture. "You, Borlin, I re-name Boromir. According to the customs of Minas Tirith you are past the age of schooling, and it is time for you to answer the call to service. I commit you to the Tower Guard where you will learn the art of war and service to your country. Yet, you are also a man, and I wish you to learn the true meaning of that. Several hours each week, as many as your captain may spare you, you will spend with your brother studying the history of your people."  
  
Denethor then turned to Farlin. "But you, boys your age still study. One day you will help your brother in his task of preserving Gondor, and I wish you to learn such skills as you may some day find useful. Keeping accounts, languages spoke in far lands and the protocols of foreign courts. I name you Faramir."  
  
Then a most unexpected thing happened. Borlin and Farlin arose Boromir and Faramir and stood behind their new father. Mellawen had been watching the ceremony and, as her new brothers rose, a curious look entered her eyes. She wanted to be like Boromir and Faramir. Before Denethor could turn to walk away Mellawen ran up and kneeled in front of him. "I too have a new name," she informed him. "My name is Finduilas."  
  
A hush swept over the crowd and the air seemed unbearably thick for the few seconds before everyone began talking at once. One voice was heard above the others: "Now don't that beat all! That pugnacious girl, she knows better than that. She knows her name, of all things, it's been told her oft enough, I reckon . . ."  
  
Ignoring the murmurs of the crowd, Mellawen looked up at her father, longing for him to recognise that she too was stepping into a new role. "Mellawen," he said at last, "lone flesh of my flesh, I would give you anything you asked, if I could. But what you ask is beyond even my power. The name Finduilas is -- it is taken from us. But it is still taken." Mellawen's eyes fell. Denethor paused for an interminable moment before he continued, "But I do have a new name for you. I dub you Mellamir." A wave of dismayed whispers swept through the crowd. But Mellamir -- that was a boy's name! "Yes," Denethor continued, "I know of your desire to learn Elvish, and where in all Gondor would I find a tutor to teach a girl such things? For I have no female kin here in Minas Tirith, and I will not send you to Dol Amroth. I -- I need you here. You and Faramir will learn together, just as Arabor and I did. I hope it turns out significantly better." He then turned to address the crowd. "Now, if there is nothing else --"  
  
"There is one thing," Gandalf said, stepping forward. "This is truly a noteworthy day. The Steward has always wanted a son, but never in anyone's wildest dreams, least of all his," and at this he chuckled, slightly amused, "never did he expect to find three sons in one day. Such an occasion deserves a fitting celebration. Your Lord Denethor has provided much of the harvest in a feast for all who will join him in honouring his departed kin and welcoming these three new sons to his house. For my part, I shall provide fireworks."  
  
The crowd erupted into a stifled cheer; true, this was a funeral, but Gandalf's fireworks were legendary and had not been seen in Minas Tirith for many years. In that whole crowd only two people looked less than pleased. Falastur looked quickly at the minister of protocol, begging for instructions on how to handle this intrusion, but the minister of protocol clearly did not know how to handle it any better himself and was countering with some difficulty his desire to cheer the fireworks. At last Falastur sighed and resigned himself to not being able to control this most unusual funeral.  
  
Denethor also looked unhappy about the wizard's announcement; in fact, he looked livid. _How dare this wizard announce my feast?_ he thought furiously. _This has gone on long enough. If he won't recognize my authority, he'll just have to leave._ Denethor was about to tell Gandalf so, but the wizard was already kneeling down in front of Mellawen and removing a leather pouch from his girdle. As the rest of the city made their way toward the tables laden with fruit, loaves of bread, pies, and roasted meats, Mellawen opened the pouch. She looked up at Gandalf, an excited and questioning look in her eyes, as she pulled out a pipe not unlike Boromir's but much finer. It was made from first-rate mahogany wood and had a silver mouthpiece, intricately carves with letters of the Common Tongue, though no man of the South would recognize the words.  
  
"Gandalf," Mellawen asked, "what's a . . . mathom . . . ?"  
  
"Shhh. Now isn't the time for questions," he replied, looking over at Denethor. "This pipe was given to me by an old friend from a land far away, but you'd laugh to see him because he's shorter than your Falastur but twice as great, at least. And the leaf . . . well, that will take some explaining as well. Perhaps, some day. But before you're ready for that tale, you will have to learn many other things, if indeed you are ever ready. Yet I see a spark in your eyes, Mellamir -- yes, though I laugh, that name suits you well, my lady -- a spark that tells me someday you will know the truth. Hmmm, riddles and quandaries I never expected to find here. Puzzles best left for the light of day. Run along, my dear, and enjoy your feast." As Mellamir ran off to find her cousins, nay, her brothers, Gandalf faced Denethor. "Master Steward, a private word, perhaps?"  
  
"Yes, I think that would be a very good idea," Denethor said through pressed lips, nodding furiously toward the gate. 


	6. Greater Vision

Chapter Five: Greater Vision  
  
2996; the Rammas Echor  
  
As the rest of Minas Tirith gathered around the food tables laid out by the servants of the steward, Denethor led Gandalf down through the Seven Gates, past the deserted houses and the empty streets. Some houses were deserted because the people living in them were at the celebration but others because their owners no longer trusted the strength of Minas Tirith, preferring strongholds further from Mordor. Finally Gandalf and Denethor reached the outer wall. They climbed a stair of stone and walked along the wall until at last Denethor stopped. He looked out over the fields of Pelennor, brooding, and the sight of the many crops still to be harvested calmed him, reminded him of the glory of Gondor. Gandalf, though, looked outward over the land that stretched beyond the horizon until at last it met the woods of ancient legends.  
  
"I know what you want me to do, Gandalf," Denethor said at last, "but you need to remember, Gondor is mine." He stared at the wizard for a long moment before remembering to add, "Until the king returns."  
  
"Until the king returns," Gandalf repeated. "What hope is there of that, in this lonely time? But hope, or doom, will find you before death does, Denethor Steward of Gondor. Yet you, lore-master of Gondor, you who know the thoughts of Men, Elves, and now even Wizards. Tell me my thoughts."  
  
"You wish to tutor my children," Denethor replied, his eyes burning with anger. "My heirs. You desire it like you desire Gondor itself --"  
  
Gandalf, who had been looking out over the land, snapped his head around and looked intently at the steward. His eyes were penetrating, intense, but they lacked the hatred that he say in Denethor's. "I never have. I do not govern any realm, nor do I desire it. Any help I could provide, it is yours for the asking."  
  
"On your terms," Denethor answered.  
  
"I give what help I can. And I have absolutely no interest in tutoring your children. Denethor, even you must realize by now that I am hardly mere parlour entertainment? I came to your city for one reason, and one reason only: your libraries, which are famous as far as the libraries east of the sea go. Know this, I am not just searching your libraries to satisfy my own curiosity. The fate of kingdoms you have never seen, and indeed your own, depends on my finding the information I seek, and quickly. I _do_ fear for your house, though. I do not have time to set off fireworks tonight, but I will make the time." He paused. "Denethor, you and your brother both have brown hair, as did Ivriniel and Finduilas. Didn't you ever wonder why your daughter has red hair, when it is so rare in the city?"  
  
Denethor thought on that for a moment. At last he said, "I do not have the idle time to ponder such things. If the Valar wished Mellamir to have red hair, then what concern is that of mine?"  
  
"You speak more truth than you realize by saying that, Denethor," Gandalf replied. "The Valar did indeed wish your daughter to have red hair; it was not mere chance, as it is with some. Your brother-in-law Imrahil received a prophecy once, years ago. Has he ever spoken to you about it?" Denethor shook his head and Gandalf nodded. "As the prophet, it is his privilege and duty to reveal to you the full prophecy when and how he chooses. I will give you just the first part, since it concerns you more than you know. Imrahil stood on top of a mountain looking out over the land. In the east he saw Mordor and all that lay beyond, and in the west, Gondor and Rohan. Orodruin began erupting, and the whole plain caught fire. But then a girl ran out of the forest beyond Rohan and the fires slowly died away. Then a voice came out of the West: "The one with both a visible and a secret fire will save your world from the coming conflagration."  
  
"Your daughter, Denethor, has a fire the world can see, her hair, which is red as hot flame. She also has a fire in her soul that few can see. That fire must be protected and built into a roaring flame, Denethor. Your daughter is important, and I need to protect her. She has a hope and a beauty that defy explanation. That is why I will show her fireworks, and teach her how to smoke a pipe, and tell her of people far away. But, Denethor -- tutor her? No, that is asking too much."  
  
They looked at each other for a long time. At last Denethor asked, "Why are you telling me this?"  
  
"Because I do not want you spoiling the girl," Gandalf replied. "She is far too important. I won't say more just yet. Ask your brother-in-law, if you prefer."  
  
Denethor thought about that for a moment. "For the time I understand enough. I love the child, want what is best for her, and if that means you ... then so be it. But I do not understand, Gandalf, how you can offer your help, and then the first thing I ask of you, you refuse. You give what you want to give, not what I need."  
  
"Wrong, Denethor," Gandalf replied. "I said that I would give any help I could. And I also said my time is precious ... too precious to waste it teaching children simple calculations. Find them a tutor to teach them what they need to know, sums, scripts, and swordsmanship."  
  
"Then what exactly are you offering?" Denethor demanded.  
  
"I will teach them what no one else can," Gandalf said. "Of legends long forgotten and peoples you have never seen. Trust me in this. These things are important, because the Shadow is falling. In their lifetimes -- yours as well -- nations that have long since forgotten about each other will come together, or else they will fall one by one to the might of Mordor."  
  
"Another of your prophecies of doom?" Denethor asked sceptically.  
  
"If I foretell the destruction of the West," Gandalf replied, "it is because I have been watching for this day since before your father's father first drew breath. And in order to survive you need to know about lands other than the ones you have seen with your own eyes. If you refuse to learn, you must surround yourself with people you can trust who know of them. Who better than your children? But my schools are not held in a classroom. We shall walk through gardens, and perhaps some day through woods, and smoke many a pipe, Mellamir and I. And Faramir as well, and Boromir."  
  
"Not Boromir," Denethor said resolutely. "I won't have him learn your Wizard ways. My brother went to the Elves and it cost him his honour, his family, and his life. Boromir will one day be steward of Gondor. What does he need with kingdoms he cannot see? He needs his feet on the ground and his head out of the clouds."  
  
"I have already explained what Boromir and your other children need with kingdoms they cannot see," Gandalf replied, somewhat less patiently. "But even without this necessary foresight, what is the harm in learning? I do not understand why you refuse to have him taught. And to confound the wise is a sign of great wisdom -- or of great foolishness. Do you _want_ your son to die?"  
  
"There are worse ways to die than in battle," Denethor said; "in a river, for one. We all have to die. I would have Boromir die in such a way that it would mean something. I'd rather him die tomorrow in battle than live a hundred years and die running from his duty."  
  
"That choice is yet before him," Gandalf replied, "but you have your own choice: whether to groom a warrior or a prince. Choose carefully, Master Steward. I know it seems like you do not have the luxury of nobility, but I warn you: in times like ours, you cannot afford the warrior and need the prince."  
  
"I don't understand," Denethor said at last.  
  
"No, I expect not. Never mind, then. You are quite sure you won't have Boromir taught?"  
  
"Less sure than I was," Denethor replied, "but how can I have him tutored, more than I already am? He is seventeen, and the time for schooling is past."  
  
"For schooling, perhaps, but for learning?" Gandalf asked. "That is a lesson you would do well to learn: that the pursuit of knowledge never ceases. The more a man learns, the more he discovers what he doesn't know, and that brings humility. To fill one's mind with much useless information is ineffective, but to know too little, that is pure folly, because then one acts rashly, with incomplete understanding and little empathy. Humility and empathy are important qualities in a leader, more important even than knowledge at times. Would you have Boromir fall to the twin evils of pride and ignorance?"  
  
"No, but --"  
  
"Then let me teach him," Gandalf interrupted. "Teach, not tutor. Apprentice him to the Guard if that is what you want for him. But at night, in his off-hours, we will talk. I will teach him, when you can spare him, of humility."  
  
"All right, Gandalf," Denethor sighed. "But do not forget -- the choice is mine."  
  
Gandalf nodded, looking at the sky which was rapidly growing dark. "There is one other thing."  
  
"There always is with you," Denethor replied. "Go on."  
  
"Who do you intend to be the Lady of Gondor now?" Gandalf asked.  
  
"Oh, that's simple," Denethor answered. "Mellawen."  
  
"But there is no more Mellawen," Gandalf observed. "Only Mellamir."  
  
This thought silenced Denethor. Finally he said, less sure, "She's still a lady, no matter her name."  
  
"Yes, but it is more than a name," Gandalf replied. "She will learn what the boys learn and spend her time around men. I will teach her the art of smoking which, I fear, will crowd out all thought of embroidery. And what of your people? Who among them would marry a woman more learned than himself, a man mighty in his own right?"  
  
Denethor was dumbstruck. Finally he said, "This is more than a problem of entertaining princes. You are not merely concerned about Minas Tirith's hospitality."  
  
"I most certainly am," Gandalf replied. "It is my business to make sure that your court and every court goes on as it has for the last thousand years, or else has the power to change as it sees fit. Your court I consider more often than most because it is not really yours. You have managed to push that thought out of your head: remember it! Yet you are correct. I am interested in more than entertaining princes. You can choose any woman of your land to be the Lady of Gondor, but it shall not solve Mellamir's problem. She will be raised a prince, but no kingdom will have her, or if by chance someone would marry her, he would force her into a cage. I don't want that fate for her."  
  
"She needs a mother," Denethor answered, frowning. "But, Gandalf, you must realize, I've just lost my wife. I loved her. I still do. I sacrificed my own brother to those Elves to get her. What a fool I was! My last words to her were an argument."  
  
"You are right, Denethor. But Mellawen still needs a mother. I could teach her the things girls learn, but how to be a lady -- that is something you must experience to teach, I'm afraid." He paused, then went on. "So what is the steward's decision?"  
  
"I cannot do it, Gandalf," Denethor said at last. "She'll be all right, I'm sure."  
  
He frowned sceptically and looked like he was going to say something else. In the end, however, he just said, "Mellamir will be expecting her fireworks," and walked down the stairs and out to the Pelennor fields. 


	7. Wizard's Meddlings

Lady of Gondor Ch 6 - Wizard's Meddlings  
  
2996-3002; Minas Tirith  
  
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The harvest came and went. Time, as it is wont to do, went on. Summer passed into winter, and then into summer again. Denethor at last managed to find a fitting tutor: Dweinlunde, the son of sages for many generations and from a respectable enough family, yet liberal-minded and willing to teach a girl (under the pretext of her being trained as a son, of course) if it also meant the honour of tutoring the future Steward of Gondor. And so he did. At Gandalf's suggestion Denethor made Boromir page to the Captain of the Tower Guard during the day, but twice a week he spent his mornings in the library with Faramir, and at night he studied under Dweinlunde, occasionally learning from Gandalf as well. Now, what Gandalf had said did not mean that Boromir was ignorant; his father Arabôr had seen to much of his education. Boromir could read script as well as any of the boys educated at the common schools, and he was very good at practical math, keeping accounts and figuring areas of farm plots. Of course, being his father's son, he knew legends that had never been recorded in books, and also those lost over time or hidden in some musty library and never studied.  
  
Faramir knew how to read, of course, but not much else. This was okay, though, because the boys of Minas Tirith didn't normally start their schooling until they were eleven, only a year younger than him. He wasn't as clever with numbers as his brother, but he was good with time: if he had to be back by lunchtime, he knew how long he could walk before he turned back and how far he could get in that time. Faramir's real love, though, was the world around him, the plants and animals that lived all about. He could tell from looking at a seed what plant would grow from it, and what its leaves would look like. And by looking at footprints he knew what kind of animal had made them, and when they were likely to hibernate, in the summer or in the winter; and when they would have babies, since Arabôr wouldn't hunt them then. Yet he was to be brother of the Steward, not a wild man of the fields, so he needed more "cultured" knowledge, to someday help Boromir in his task of governing Gondor. That's why he had to be tutored, to learn about the ancient Númenoreans and all the peoples descended from them. On Gandalf's advice, he also studied in more general terms the other free folk of the West with which Men occasionally had dealings.   
  
Yet Boromir was not steward yet and so Faramir would not become his administrator for some time yet. Until that time, though, Faramir had other duties to see to, as Boromir constantly reminded him. Gondor would soon be at war, its borders were already threatened, and Faramir had a duty to train in sword and bow. So twice a week, after Boromir had joined Faramir for his morning lessons, Faramir would accompany his brother to the Tower Guard and the two would practice swordplay and archery. Much of the time Mellamir would join them as well.  
  
Denethor searched long for a woman to tutor Mellawen, but in vain. He suspected he would not be able to find one since the only women qualified for such a position would be high-born. Those already married would be busy with their own family, and the others would be of marriageable age, and what family would ruin their daughter's prospects for a good match by having her work outside the family, no matter how noble the cause? He thought at first of sending her to Dol Amroth where she might be tutored by her aunts with her cousins there, but the thought of her being so far away pained his heart. No, he would not send her away. So Dweinlunde tutored her with Faramir, teaching them much the same things.   
  
This was okay when Mellamir was eight and Faramir thirteen, and the people of their father's court seemed to brush it aside. _She's just lost her mother, poor dear, some said. She'll grow out of these odd ways_. Or, _well, she has no mother and hasn't for a year. She needs someone to show her how to be a lady. Why doesn't her father marry?_ But perhaps the most popular explanation was, _It's that meddling wizard. He doesn't understand our ways and has no right ruining the child. If he'd just let her be, she'd settle down and develop some sense_. But as the years passed on, people became less willing to look the other way. Plenty of girls didn't have mothers for one reason or another, and they all turned out all right. What's more, that wizard was seen less and less with her; no excuse there.  
  
That name, Mellamir, was another bit of nonsense. At first people called her by it and had a good chuckle, thinking it a childish phase, but then she stopped answering to anything else. Now, if someone meant business, if Mellamir was in trouble, they would call her "Mellawen, child of Denethor" -- she wouldn't answer to "daughter of" even then. At other times, though, she wouldn't even respond to Mellawen. It was "Mellamir, son of Denethor," and no one seemed able to break her of the habit.  
  
As the years went on nature took its course in all things, not least of all Mellamir. Back at Arabôr's farm she had worn loose, long skirts, torn about the knees, and Boromir's old trousers under them so she could run and climb trees. Growing up in Minas Tirith before that she wore dresses like all the other girls her age, always in the finest fabrics -- befitting the daughter of the Steward, and no less would do. After she became Mellamir, though, she refused to wear the dresses. She told her father that no one would believe she was a boy if her hair was long and she wore dresses all the time, so she cut her hair like Faramir's and took on the trousers and tunic of the boys of Minas Tirith.   
  
This all worked fine (at least comparatively speaking) but then Mellamir began to develop, and as her body took on the shape of a woman, tongues began to wag. The britches were not simply boyish, they were immodest as well. Denethor tried to concine his daughter to return to wearing skirts, but to no avail. By this time Mellamir had taken up the sword and found she could not move around as well in a skirt as she could in britches. _But what does a daughter of Gondor need with a sword?_ the wagging tongues asked. The questions circled through the Seventh Circle and filtered all the way to the very outer walls of Minas Tirith. Every gossipy woman, it seemed, felt the need to discuss Mellamir's private business in the streets, shops, and surrounding fields, whatever her class.  
  
People thought that Gandalf had stopped bothering the girl for what he doubtless considered weightier matters. Perhaps they were, but he far from neglected the young Lady of Gondor. Many nights after all the people had gone to bed the sentry saw an old hooded man and a boy of the Steward's household sitting on the outer wall, looking at forgotten forests and talking. They spoke of old legends and living beings many thought nothing but legend: short people, wizards (other wizards; the people of Minas Tirith didn't believe there could possibly be another like Gandalf if he was half he claimed), walking trees, and eagles with a sense of honour. Gondorians accepted that Dwarves and Elves had at one time lived, but the people of Minas Tirith hadn't heard from them in so long that, if they still existed, surely they didn't matter much to the modern man, save for small troublesome pockets like those Arabôr had found. Mellamir, however, learned from Gandalf what they were called and where they supposedly still lived, far away.  
  
She appeared more and more a boy as time passed, despite her increasingly feminine body, and while most people couldn't blame the wizard for anything specific (the guards being the only ones who saw anything, and they couldn't tell anyone outside the guard what they saw while on duty) everyone from the nobles in Denethor's court to the boys who swept the streets sensed that something was horribly wrong, and most guessed that Gandalf was somehow to blame.  
  
When she was first growing up in Minas Tirith, Mellamir was never an early waker, preferring to let the sun rise without her and join it later, but after returning from Arabôr's farm she often watched the sun rise from Ecthelion. Maybe she picked up the habit from Boromir and Faramir who, out of necessity, usually beat the sun out of bed. Perhaps her near-death experience in the river had given her a new appreciation for life, not to waste even an hour sleeping. Most, however, agreed it was Gandalf. His teaching her of far-away places gave her an interest in sunrises and sunsets because that was when her attention was naturally drawn to those far-away horizons where half-myths might still live.  
  
Of course, Gandalf taught not just Mellamir but Boromir and Faramir as well. Faramir loved his stories and sensed the truth in them. Sometimes he joined his sister in her talks with Gandalf, but usually he smoked alone. This pipe-smoking was a curious thing. At first Denethor was dismayed to learn that, when not with Mellamir, his two sons often sat on the city wall smoking pipes, an activity hardly fitting for the heirs of the Steward. He convinced Boromir to give it up by appealing to his sense of duty -- a future steward had to maintain appearances -- but Faramir refused. It was one of the few things his father had taught him how to do, and whenever he smoked he felt somehow closer to Arabôr. Denethor couldn't bring himself to ask Mellamir to stop; sitting on the city wall or under a tree smoking and talking with that wizard gave her more joy than almost anything else.  
  
Now, that was a bit disconcerting. Denethor and practically everyone else in Minas Tirith saw the wizard for what he was: a wandering freeloader who was always looking for answers and never finding them. But for some reason Mellamir and Faramir didn't see him like that. Boromir had never put much trust in his wizard tales; he thought them pure nonsense, probably more than half a lie, and anyway, if a person only had stories to tell, what good did that do but keep tots out of the way when work had to be done? _Thank the Valar for that_, Denethor thought, but what about the others . . . Mellamir he could excuse, it must be a woman's thing, they never grew up anyway. But Faramir, that was a different issue altogether! After all, he would become the brother of the Steward someday, and if anything happened to Boromir, Denethor did not want his kingdom handed over to someone whose best use of his time was to hear stories about people who ate seven times a day.  
  
Whether Mellamir would have actually beaten the sun that morning will never be known because Gandalf beat them both. He shook the girl gently, and slowly her world came into focus.  
  
"Gandalf?" Mellamir asked sleepily.  
  
"Yes, I am here."  
  
She squinted at him, wiping the sleep from her eyes. "What are those?" she said, her eyes resting on the saddlebags beside him.  
  
"Ah," Gandalf replied. "The bags. One is for me and one is for you. There are clothes, cloaks, blankets, food -- fruits, dried meats, and bread, that sort of thing -- and water flasks of course; everything for our journey. I couldn't pack your pipe because you and Faramir were out smoking last night. Do you have it now?"  
  
"Yes of co -- what trip, Gandalf?" she asked. "What are you talking about?"  
  
"Ah, that," he replied, smiling mischievously. "Your father thought you might like a trip out of the city. We've talked about the Tree-herds, of course. Your father and I have decided it is time you met one." Mellamir sat there dumbstruck for a moment. "Don't you want to meet them?" Gandalf asked. "Then get dressed. We have to be out of sight of Minas Tirith by the time people start waking up. Join me in the stables at the Fifth Circle when you're ready, but no later than twenty minutes from now." 


	8. The Journey

Ch 7 - The Journey  
  
3002 - Anórien and Rohan  
  
~*~  
  
Fifteen minutes later Mellamir ran into the stables where Gandalf held the bridles of two horses, groomed, fed, saddled, and ready to go. "Up you go," he said. "We need to hurry now." Gandalf helped her into her saddle, then mounted his own horse and with one "Hyah!" the two rode out of the stable and through the city.  
  
Minas Tirith was built against the mountain Mindolluin and was divided into seven circles by walls. Each of these circles save the first was split in half by a great rock spear. The only way from the Citadel in the Seventh Circle to the great gate in the First was by way of a long road that snaked its way down the mountain, passing through the rock wall seven times. No one could travel far through the city, certainly not from one circle to the next, without the guards knowing about it, and also the citizens who lived along the road if they were awake. As Gandalf wanted to leave with as few people knowing as possible, he and Mellamir had to leave before the city woke up.  
  
They rode out of the stable and down the main road through the city, past the boarded up and sleeping houses and through the seven gates, at last reaching the great gate. The guard saw them and came down the stairs.  
  
"Where are you going, and on whose authority do you take the lady Mellamir?" asked the guard, whom Gandalf recognized as a new soldier named Ingold.  
  
"Your lord's," Gandalf replied as he handed Ingold a letter. Ingold read it over, then scowled at the wizard. "How do I know this is not some forgery?"  
  
"You do not," Gandalf replied, "which leaves you three choices. You may go and wake the Steward and ask him yourself, but if you value your position I would advise against that; Denethor will not look highly to such foolishness. You may detain us here, though again, I would not advise it: the Steward has trusted me for these two years with his children, and he is a better judge of character in this matter than you." Gandalf took back the letter and placed it in his robes, then turned his gaze on Ingold. "Or you can do your duty as a guard of the gate and speed us on our way without detaining us any longer."  
  
Ingold turned away quickly, eager to avoid the wizard's gaze. Something about those piercing eyes made him think Gandalf could see into his very soul. He knew he should probably ask the gate-warden what to do, but he didn't want to tell Gandalf that, for whatever reason. And the letter did look legitimate. At last he waved his hand toward the wall, the gates slowly opened, and Gandalf and Mellamir rode out of Minas Tirith.  
  
They rode along the Great West Road for several hours, and at first Mellamir was content to let the hills roll by. Gandalf rode a fine horse, a gift from King Théoden of Rohan several years earlier, back when Gandalf was still welcome at Théoden's court. The wizard hadn't yet been banned from Rohan so he and Mellamir could ride openly through that country, but Gandalf felt less welcome in Edoras than he had in the past. The king wasn't any less Gandalf's friend when the two spoke alone, but the king's new advisors didn't like the wizard and whispered poison in the king's ears whenever Gandalf came to court. So Gandalf rode through Gondor and toward Rohan on one of the king's horses, not hiding but not calling attention to himself either. Mellamir's horse, the offspring of a Rohirric stallion and a Gondorian mare, was no match for Gandalf's steed, but the child was an able rider and for some time she kept up with Gandalf. After a while, though, she felt her horse tiring under her, his hooves stumbling ever so slightly and his strides a little forced, not fluid like they had been in the early hours of the morning. At last Mellamir said, "Gandalf, we have to either rest or slow down. If we don't, my horse might fall from the heat, and wouldn't that slow us down even more?"  
  
Gandalf nodded. "You are right, of course. Let us make for that grove of trees -- slowly, your horse really is overworked -- and we will rest and have breakfast. It is near the third hour in your city. Breakfast is overdue, especially for two travellers such as us. I think we have put in more leagues this morning than most men of your city do in a week."  
  
Gandalf opened his saddlebag and produced fresh baked brown bread, a bit of butter, and fresh fruits, the best of early summer. Then he walked down to a nearby stream and filled their water flasks. When he returned he saw that Mellamir had sliced some of the bread and buttered it and was waiting on him to start. He handed her a flask and nodded for her to begin, and they were quiet while they ate. When finally they had eaten their fill and Mellamir was packing the leftovers into Gandalf's saddlebag, Gandalf said, "While you're over there, get my pipe, and yours too. I can see you've got questions on your mind."  
  
She took her time answering. First Mellamir stuffed her pipe full of weed and lit it, then blew several smoke-rings and gazed at the western horizon where she imagined great forests loomed, though she couldn't see them yet.  
  
"Well, yes, actually," Mellamir said at last. "Quite a few, but two for the moment. One important, one not."  
  
"All questions are important," Gandalf replied.  
  
"All right, then," she clarified, "one seems related to Fangorn and the other's completely random."  
  
He pondered that for a second. "Ask me the random one first," he said at last.  
  
"You remember when I first came back from Uncle Arabôr's farm," Mellamir continued, "and you gave me this pipe? I asked you then what 'mathom' meant, and you said that I wouldn't understand, but that someday I might. But I don't understand, and I've been curious about it ever since, and I'd just like to know what that word means and why I wouldn't understand right away."  
  
"Mellamir, I commend your memory. We had that conversation almost six years ago. It's better, though, that you hear the truth of the matter from me. If you asked a Hobbit they would answer you as long as you sat still to listen."  
  
"A Hobbit?" Mellamir asked.  
  
"Yes, a Hobbit," Gandalf replied. "That is the crux of your question, though you do not realize it. Where to start?" He took a puff on his pipe, deep in thought. "You know, of course, that in the days of the kings, Gondor was much larger than what your father governs today? Far to the north and to the west the kings used to claim allegiance. If you were to pass Edoras and go through Fangorn, you would at last come to the Elven woods of Lórien. And if the queen were to let you pass through the lands and you went over the Redhorn Pass to the lands west of the Misty Mountains, and on for many more miles, finally you would reach Rivendell, the Last Homely House. And if you kept going north and west you'd come to another great wood, though less great than it used to be, and beyond that the Brandywine and the far-off land known as the Shire. And if they let you in -- which they probably wouldn't; they don't like outsiders -- then you would meet the Hobbits.  
  
"Now, no one knows exactly where they come from. They are not Elves, or Dwarves, or Men, though they are more like Men than anyone else. Much shorter, though; the tallest rarely pass four feet. They do not like machinery more advanced than a plow, though they can use tools, and they are skilled in most crafts save cobbling. Hobbits have extremely tough feet so they don't need shoes, even in the coldest of weather. Not that that is much of a concern since it hasn't snowed in the Shire for several years now and they seldom if ever leave it. They like regular meals, plenty of everything, and well-laid gardens. They still know how to fight, however -- though few have ever made use of that skill.  
  
"The first tales I know of them -- and I have studied them for many years now -- have them living along the upper Anduin, between Mirkwood and the Misty Mountains. I do not know what first prompted them to move, but move they did: across the mountains and Eriador. There were three main types originally, the Harfoots, the Stoors, and the Fallohides, but today few hobbits come purely from one of those branches and they generally identify themselves with one of the families, for example the Bagginses or the Brandybucks. Somehow, they all came to the Shire at last and they have been living there for years. Forgotten by most, but some still watch over them, though the Hobbits themselves don't know anything about their guardians. I'm talking about the Dúnedain."  
  
"Dúnedain?" Mellamir asked. That word sounded familiar, though she couldn't place it.  
  
"Men of the West. Back from when the king ruled there; they are rangers and scouts, and they watch over the Shire to make sure no evil thing gets in. Now, about your pipe." Mellamir looked up at him, trying to stifle her yawn -- as usual, he was taking entirely too long to answer the question -- but he pressed on, seeming not to notice her waning interest.  
  
"The Hobbits haven't done much that has carried over to the world at large, mainly because most people don't even know they exist, but pipe smoking might be the one exception. I know the art, as do many others, but precious few Gondorians do. Yet I remember a day when most of the people smoked. Kings, even. The question is, did it start with the Hobbits and spread to Men, or with Men and spread to the Hobbits? I do not know for certain, but I think the Hobbits most likely came up with the idea: it is just such a hobbity notion. Only people who organize their day around meals would come up with the idea of sitting around and breathing in burning plants. But no matter. Your pipe is a gift to me from a great hobbit, a patriarch. He was known as the Old Took -- the Tooks are one of the most important Hobbit families -- and most of the Hobbits worth speaking of today are related to him by blood or marriage. He scored 130 years, and that is old, even for Hobbits, who usually reach 100. He gave me this pipe after a particularly enjoyable party. Whenever I was in the Shire he would throw a party, and I would bring the fireworks. We would sit and smoke, eat and drink, until the early hours of the morning. Good times; but, yes, that is the pipe. I think it came down to him from Isengrim the Second, so you should be honoured."  
  
"Isengrim the -- what?" she asked, looking up.  
  
Gandalf chuckled. "I should have known that name wouldn't mean anything to you. A giant among Hobbits. If you were a Hobbit, having something that belonged to Isengrim would mean something. This particular party was for the Old Took's birthday, and that is why he gave me the pipe. They have a custom -- I wish more people would follow it; it would do them some good -- of when they celebrate a birthday, instead of other people giving them gifts, they distribute the presents." Mellamir blew another smoke ring, then returned her attention back to the ants marching along not far away.  
  
"Years later, when I learned what it was, I tried to give the pipe back to another hobbit-friend of mine, Bilbo Baggins. Years ago, there was a battle at the Green Fields. The battle was neither great nor terrible by the accounting of Men, but it is the only one ever to occur in the Shire. The Hobbits were threatened by Orcs, and the three Took brothers Bandobras, Isenbras, and Ferumbras organized the Hobbits and led them into battle. There Ferumbras died, along with many other Hobbits, and Bandobras made this pipe to honour his brother. One of the first true pipes. So when I found out all this I tried to give it back to Bilbo, but he wouldn't take it. He said he had seen enough adventures and didn't want any reminders of other peoples' goings-on." He paused for a moment and looked at Mellamir, an amazed look on her face as she stared at her pipe. She knew almost nothing of hobbits or their ways, but she was still clearly impressed.  
  
"Now you asked what the word 'mathom' meant," Gandalf continued, pointing out the word on Mellamir's pipe. _Ah, now he was finally coming to the point!_ Mellamir thought to herself, though she didn't dare say it. "It is an old word, one I have never heard outside the Shire. A mathom is something you do not want to throw away but don't really have a use for. Hobbits pass around mathoms, often, for birthday presents. Estella would give it to her cousin Drogo on her birthday, and then two weeks later he'd pass it along to his wife's sister's next-door-neighbour Primula, and so on. Amazing people. I hope you will meet them someday, but, as I said, they live very far away. Maybe someday." He blew a smoke ring that shaped itself into a giant eagle and flew away. At last Gandalf continued, "You had another question?"  
  
Mellamir nodded. "Just one more, though. Why are we going?"  
  
"I told you that already," Gandalf replied. "Your father and I agree it is time you journeyed out of the city and saw some of the world."  
  
"Ha!" Mellamir cried. "You I believe, but Papa? For him the world ends at the ancient boundaries of Gondor, and he cares nothing for trees and distrusts your 'Elvish magic'. Talking trees, ha! I can hear him saying it. And why now?"  
  
"My dear Mellamir," Gandalf replied, a hint of a smile playing at his lips, "your curiosity and frankness will get you in trouble some day. To answer your question, for myself at least, I need to see Treebeard. I have read all of the scrolls in your father's libraries that I think could likely be useful, but I have not found anything. I need direction and advice. Treebeard is a good help to an old wizard in these matters. He is wise beyond measure and, more importantly, he will give me the whole truth, not only what he wants me to hear. I want to see him, and this is a good opportunity for you to meet him as well. You will certainly never meet him through anyone else in Minas Tirith."  
  
"And Father?"  
  
"He has his reasons," Gandalf replied, "but to explain them thoroughly I would have to tell you much about this Treebeard, things which you would do better to hear from him, in his own words. He looked up at her, saw that unconvinced look in her eyes, and continued. "Mellamir, you must give your father more credit. He is a great man and has had a hard life, lost everything he ever cared about. His parents are long dead, he has lost his brother and his wife, and now he fears he might lose you and Faramir to my 'wizard's meddlings', as he puts it -- no, not to my face, but I have heard him say it to other people." Mellamir's unconvinced look was quickly replaced by one of shocking disbelief, but Gandalf hardly noticed. "He is a complicated man, and he fears the unknown, that which he cannot see and understand."  
  
" But why --" Mellamir began, but Gandalf held up his hand for silence.  
  
"Lately, the unknown includes you and Faramir. He is a great man, Mellamir, but he thinks he is greater than he is, and that is dangerous. Yet he is not so simple as to be easily understood." He sighed. "Did you know he wanted to send you to Dol Amroth?"  
  
"Dol Amroth?" Mellamir repeated, now confused. "Why?"  
  
"Because," Gandalf answered gently, "you are a girl and he thinks it is time you acted like one. Try to see through his eyes, Mellamir. You spend all your day with your brothers, something the ladies of his court do not hesitate to point out to one another, and he hears their gossip. One day you must marry, but he cannot see any prince or lord marrying such an unruly lady as you have become."   
  
Mellamir started to protest but stopped. She disagreed with this assessment of her personality, but she could at least see how her father could think such things. "So I'm going to Dol Amroth when I get back?" she asked, a pained look on her face.  
  
"No," Gandalf answered. "I said he wanted to send you to Dol Amroth; I did not say you were going. This Treebeard I am taking you to -- I will let him tell you why, however he chooses to do so, but your father feels that he can help you learn to be a lady, however strange that might sound. And he did not want to send you away from your brothers, nor from himself, so when I suggested Fangorn he reluctantly agreed." With that, Gandalf blew his last smoke ring and snuffed out his pipe. "Now it really is time to go. We have miles to go before the sun sleeps."  
  
~*~  
  
Gandalf and Mellamir rode for two more hours until at last they reached the Druadan Forest where they left the road. Mellamir knew if they had kept to the road they would have eventually come to Edoras, the capital of Rohan. The Rohirrim, famous far and wide for their fierce loyalty and their resilient, sturdy horses, had long been allies of Gondor. At one time Rohan had been a part of Gondor, but when Éorl answered the steward Cirion's call for help, Cirion gave Éorl the land that became Rohan as reward for his services.  
  
But Gandalf and Mellamir weren't going to Edoras, and this road would lead them too far south. No roads led to Fangorn because hardly anyone went there, certainly not enough to wear a path through the rough country. Gandalf's horse was familiar enough with the terrain, but Mellamir's mare found every root and all the undergrowth. When Gandalf noticed how badly her horse was struggling, he dismounted and walked over. He placed his hands around the horse's neck under his head, leaned over, and whispered words of a language Mellamir couldn't understand into the horse's ear. Suddenly an arrow flew through the air past Gandalf's ear and pierced the tree behind him. The horse's nostrils flared and he started to rear, but Gandalf held him steady, and slowly the horse calmed down. A short, swarthy man walked out of the woods carrying a bow on his back, his thick brown hair and sparse beard unkempt. He met Gandalf's eyes as he walked forward slowly.  
  
"Why you stop?" he asked.  
  
"Her horse is tired," Gandalf replied. "I was --"  
  
"You leave now," the man interrupted.  
  
"If I let go of the horse," Gandalf answered patiently, "he will bolt. Your arrow spooked him. As soon as I calm him, we will leave."  
  
The swarthy man suspiciously eyed the pale girl sitting on the horse. "Who she?" he asked Gandalf plainly. Mellamir looked at Gandalf, a similar question in her eyes.  
  
"Mellamir," Gandalf said reluctantly, "this is Ghân-buri-Ghân, chief of the men of these woods." He paused, then grudgingly finished the introduction, "Ghân-buri-Ghân, this is Mellamir, child of the steward."  
  
"From the Stone City?" the man asked, growling slightly under his breath. Gandalf nodded and Ghân-buri-Ghân took the reins from Gandalf's hand. The wizard backed away and mounted his own horse, looking at Ghân-buri-Ghân apprehensively. "You go _now_!" Ghân bellowed to Gandalf. He slapped Mellamir's horse sharply on its flank, and the horse galloped off through the woods as Gandalf rode after in pursuit. When Gandalf's horse caught up, he could see the other horse had some stamina left so they slowed to a canter and continued for a good half-hour, not stopping until they cleared the woods. At a signal from Gandalf, Mellamir slowed her mount, then stopped. They dismounted, and Gandalf began massaging Mellamir's horse.  
  
"What was that about?" Mellamir asked as she offered her horse a carrot from her saddlebag.  
  
"Hunting rights," Gandalf answered, sighing.  
  
"What do you mean? They want to hunt our animals?"  
  
"I wish it were that simple, Mellamir," Gandalf replied with a sigh. "No, he wants the men of Gondor to stop hunting his children." Mellamir looked at him, disbelief in her eyes. "There are many types of Men, Mellamir, many of them of noble race, but your father is wont to forget that. Any man who is not like himself is somehow less worthy to his way of thinking. But Ghân-buri-Ghân comes from a proud, ancient stock. Before the kings ever sailed from Númenor, his ancestors -- the Púkel-men, who lived in what is now Rohan -- built great fortresses. Today they hide away in these woods and want only to be left alone."  
  
Now that the two had left the woods, Mellamir caught her first glimpse of the land north of the Ered Nimrais. She didn't see many farms, and the land was much more rocky. After Gandalf and Mellamir had ridden away from the forest, north toward the Great River, Mellamir looked back and saw over the trees a great range of mountains rising up through the clouds.  
  
"Is that . . .?" Mellamir wondered aloud.  
  
"Nardol," Gandalf answered. "One of the fire-beacons. Your father lights the first one, at Amon Dîn, high up in the mountains. Then the men at Eilenach see the light and kindle their own fire, and on down through the others. They can see that last fire away in Rohan."  
  
"So this is Anórien," she said to herself.  
  
Gandalf nodded. "The sun-lands. The land is too rocky to be much good for farming, but some people still live here, hunters mostly." He paused, then looked back at the mountains. "Your father has never had reason to light the beacons, nor did his father, back through many generations. But some day the mountaintops may burn again. Denethor will need the help they can bring." With that, Gandalf gave Mellamir's horse a final pat, walked back to his own steed, and mounted. "Come along, Fangorn is still many miles away," he said, and the two of them rode toward the Great River in the distance.  
  
That evening they reached the riverbanks of the Anduin as the sun set, and they ate fish Gandalf caught for dinner. The next morning they rode along the western bank of the Anduin, north toward the Entwash. How many days, Mellamir lost count, probably four or five. They slept, ate, rode, and rested, all the things one does on a long journey, but Mellamir asked no more questions until at last she saw in the distance the rushing falls of Rauros.  
  
"What's that?" she asked, pointing at the great, carved stone cliffs framing the falls.  
  
"The Argonath," Gandalf answered, smiling. Mellamir was pointing at the towering stone guardians six leagues off, but even at that distance they still impressed her. She saw the crowns on the back of their heads, their flowing robes, and their great arms stretched out, forbidding others to enter. She stopped her horse and was quiet for a moment, admiring the statues.  
  
"They mark the ancient northern boundaries of Gondor," Gandalf continued at last. "Long ago, when the Númenoreans sailed to Middle-earth from their island in the Sea, they built the Argonath to warn outsiders that they were entering the southern lands of the kings. Do not be afraid! I see the fear in your eyes. But the Argonath guard you and all Gondor."  
  
"I am not afraid," Mellamir replied absent-mindedly. And she wasn't; she had heard of the Argonath from Dweinlunde once, she just never imagined they would be so huge. But she wasn't really listening to Gandalf or even looking at the cliffs. No, she was trying to determine what that revolting smell was, brought to her by an east wind. She sniffed the air and wrinkled her face. "Eurgh! Do you smell it?"  
  
Gandalf nodded. "The fields of Dagorlad lie beyond the Great River, near the Black Gates."  
  
"Dagorlad," Mellamir repeated, recognition dawning on her face. She stared off into the distance, a blank look on her face, as Gandalf continued.  
  
"When Elendil, father of Isildur, sailed to Middle-earth, the elf-lord Gil-galad had been fighting Sauron for over a millennium. But Sauron feared Númenor and what it represented, and so he attacked Gondor to try to stamp out this world of men. Gil-galad and Elendil forged an alliance to fight Sauron, and they challenged his vast army of orcs and other foul creatures on the fields of Dagorlad, past the Great River --"   
  
"Enough," Mellamir interrupted. "I know the old stories, and don't need reminding." Gandalf nodded, understanding, and at last Mellamir continued, trying to breathe more shallowly so she did not have to inhale the stench. "Let's leave this frightful place. The beauty of the Argonath cannot erase the stench of that ancient battle."  
  
They left the Great River and rode along the Entwash for two more days until at last Gandalf stopped at the threshold of a great wall of trees. He turned to Mellamir and said, "You will see many things in this forest that you have never seen or heard tell of before. Remember: they are different, _not_ wrong. No matter how frightened you are, know that nothing can hurt you so long as you are with me. This is Fangorn, not Mirkwood, and there are no dark lords hiding in here, however scary the forest might seem. Just remember, when we meet the Ents, allow me to speak first." 


	9. Fimbrethil's Garden

The Lady of Gondor Ch 8 - Fimbrethil's Garden  
  
3002; Fangorn Forest  
  
---------------------  
  
Gandalf and Mellamir crossed the threshold of trees into Fangorn and rode in a short way before they were blocked by a new line of trees, growing closely together. Mellamir turned her horse to the right and started to go around, but when she reached what she thought had been the end of the wall she saw that the line now extended as far as she could see in either direction. Suddenly one tree stepped forward and grabbed her, placing her on one of its limbs. Another took Gandalf and before she knew what was happening the two of them were rushing along at canopy level. Gandalf shouted to her, "Don't panic!" but it was hard not to: they were moving so fast, and she could hardly see Gandalf for all the trees between them. Mellamir couldn't have said how far they traveled because she couldn't see the sun through the thick overhead; in fact, time seemed to stand still. At last the creatures dropped Mellamir and Gandalf in front of a huge tree, perhaps fifteen feet tall. At least Mellamir thought it a tree at first, but on closer inspection he seemed more like a giant man with bark for skin and huge thick arms and legs, which she originally mistook for branches. It had huge feet with seven toes that burrowed down through the rock and soil, its deep brown eyes gleaming with an ancient green light that scanned Mellamir, and she stared back, afraid to move.  
  
Gandalf stood up and the tree-man changed its shape, extending its branches. The wizard motioned urgently at Mellamir and she clambered to her feet. Gandalf turned and said, "Good morning, Treebeard. I am most sorry to disturb your rest, but there is someone here you should meet."  
  
Treebeard looked down at the little girl at his feet. "Hrum-ha-rum-rum, who is this, this . . . you will have to excuse me. I have not seen one in half an age. What are you called in your tongue?"  
  
"M-Mellamir?" she stuttered.  
  
"She is a child of Gondor," Gandalf added.  
  
"A child, that _is_ something," Treebeard said slowly, as if he was talking to himself. "Never seen a child of Gondor. But I must not be too hasty." He reached down, and Mellamir scrambled backwards but not quickly enough. Treebeard grabbed her by her collar and held her up to the light, then set her back down.  
  
"And what might you be?" Mellamir finally sputtered.  
  
"I am an Ent." He stood in the clearing looking down at the frightened child. She crawled backward along the ground, away from the imposing creature, until she ran into what she assumed was another tree. When she turned around, though, she saw it reaching for her. She scrambled to her feet and looked around. Her eyes rested on the one thing that couldn't possibly be a tree: a white rock, tall and slender, sticking out of the ground like a sundial. Mellamir made for it and scrambled to the top.  
  
Suddenly a deep laugh reverberated through the trees, like Gandalf's but much deeper and older. "Do not worry, little child, I will not harm you. We Ents are vegetarians -- or mineral-tarians, I suppose. At any rate we do not eat girls, that much is certain."  
  
Mellamir still looked worried. "But what are you?" she asked.  
  
"I am an Ent, as I have said," Treebeard replied. "_The_ Ent, you might say. Your Gandalf undoubtedly named me Treebeard, for that is what I am called in the world outside, or at least I was called by that name when the world outside still spoke of me. Yet here, in the depths of the forest, I am called Fangorn: for I am the heart of Fangorn, and Fangorn is the heart of me. I and the others like me were created ages ago to protect the trees who, because they cannot move, cannot run."  
  
During this whole speech Mellamir had been sliding slowly off her rocky perch and now stood at Fangorn's roots. She straightened her skirt, wanting to impress this new monster who could just as easily squash her into the ground as look at her, but she was too frightened to even notice the dirt on her skirt from scurrying along the ground or her wind-blown hair, a tangled mess from her ride in the tree-tops. She looked up at Gandalf, a question in her eyes.  
  
"You have met the Ent," Gandalf said at last. "I am satisfied. It was worth the journey just for you to meet Treebeard. Then Gandalf addressed Treebeard. "This is Mellamir, child of Denethor, Lord of Gondor, who rules there until the king returns. She was born Mellawen but later took the name Mellamir, as just before her mother died she promised to teach Mellamir how to read Sindarin. Her father wanted to honour that promise -- though he saw little purpose in anyone learning Elvish and feared the language -- but he did not have the time to teach her personally and could not find a qualified tutor willing to tutor a girl. He did find one scholar, learned and respectable but liberal enough to teach his daughter under the pretext of her being trained as a son if it also meant the honour of tutoring the Steward's other children. So the name stuck. She probably will not answer to any other. For two years now Mellamir has been studying with her brother Faramir everything Gondor's boys learn, and now Denethor has a problem: he has a son for a daughter."  
  
Treebeard did not respond immediately but instead stooped over the frightened girl. He stared into her eyes and examined her clothing. Only then did he turn to Gandalf. "A problem? All children are precious, Gandalf, whether they are sons or daughters. Too precious to drive them away. I know that full well, and you know that I know, which is, I suspect, why you brought me Mellamir. But I can see how, in a country where these things matter, this could be considered a problem. Yet not necessarily so. Is she really a son? Britches do not make the boy. And if she is a son today, was she ever really a daughter? Ha-la-lee-lie, you seem to understand her quite well, Gandalf. Well enough, perhaps, for both of us. But we must not be too hasty. I must learn these things for myself, and that will take time."  
  
"Treebeard," Gandalf replied, "after all our years of friendship, hastiness is the last thing I would expect from you. Of course, take Mellamir and learn what you can about her. And with her safe in Fangorn --"  
  
"Safe?" Treebeard asked. "Safe from what?"  
  
"From many things," Gandalf answered. "Her own people, for one. I do not want them to ruin her, force her into a mold and smother her spirit. And from the East, of course. Dark clouds, Treebeard, they are growing. It will be Mirkwood all over again, only much worse, and nowhere in all Middle-earth will be safe, least of all Gondor." He looked deep into Treebeard's timeless eyes and continued in Quenya, the ancient tongue of the Elves. "Nárë hína apaceno. Lá istarë. Lá lertarë ista, andavë pella síarë. Nan írë lá vára engwë larta sina túlala ohta, ná maurëa sa Meldamírë. Ar ná maurëa sa lartuvares únaityana."*  
  
"I understand," Treebeard answered in the Common Tongue.  
  
"Good," Gandalf continued. "With her safe here -- or as safe as she can be anywhere, at least -- I can concentrate on more important things. Your neighbour to the south is very learned in ring-lore."  
  
"Saruman," Treebeard murmured. "Yes, he is a neighbour. That I cannot forget. Yet hardly neighbourly. What do you fear?"  
  
"I have a friend, in a far-away land, who has found a ring. A ring that makes him disappear."  
  
"A magic ring?" Treebeard asked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"But whose? Perhaps it belonged to the dwarf-lords once --"  
  
"No, it is quite plain. A simple gold band."  
  
"But Saruman, he is not one I would go to for advice," Treebeard said.  
  
"The Steward would not have me leave his daughter with someone he had never met," Gandalf replied, "let alone with a race he had never seen, nor even heard of save from me. And a father usually judges best what to do with his own children; I would not interfere without good reason. But in these dangerous days, when so much is at risk, we all do things we would not in safer times. Nothing I regret, of course, but I cannot afford all of the safeties I might prefer."  
  
"You have grown rash, Gandalf," Treebeard answered. "Rash, but not hasty. I understand." He thought for a moment, then added, "It could be the One."  
  
"I fear you are correct, Treebeard," Gandalf replied. "But I will not speak that evil thought until I see Saruman."  
  
Treebeard nodded. "Seek him if you must."  
  
"Good," Gandalf replied. "You watch Mellamir and learn what you need to, and I will travel to Isengard and learn what I need to. I will return within the week, or at least send word. Now I believe you have our horses."  
  
A great wind went out through the trees. The leaves fluttered, the trunks groaned, and any birds and squirrels around ran away as fast as their legs and wings could carry them. The wind circled through the trees and returned to Treebeard. A horse came galloping up.  
  
"Your horse, Gandalf," Treebeard said. "Mellamir's I have sent to Rohan. I am an imposing sight for a beast, I am afraid."  
  
Gandalf mounted his horse, then turned him to face Mellamir. "Treebeard is a good friend of mine," he said to her. "True, he is intimidating, as much to two-legged creatures as four-legged ones, but you are completely safe here, as safe with him as you would be with me. Trust him!" With that the wizard slapped his horse, yelled "Hyah!" and galloped out of sight.  
  
As Gandalf rode off Treebeard turned to the girl standing at his roots. "Come with me," he said. Mellamir climbed up his trunk and sat on one of his shoulders, and he strode off into the forest.  
  
From her viewpoint so high in the trees the forest somehow seemed less imposing. The trees looked like mere saplings, not the ancient giants they were, and the huge birds circling above the trees were no longer falcons about to dive down and carry her off but were as friendly and benign as sparrows on the window-sill. From this height, she could see that the sun did in fact rise and set just like it did in the rest of Middle-earth. True, the thick upper branches kept her from feeling the sun's warmth or even seeing it clearly, but just the vaguely less-shadowy area descending into the west somehow made the ancient forest more bearable.  
  
This spector of the sun had crossed the sky three times before Treebeard finally began to slow. "We must not lose our way," he murmured as he scanned the horizon. Only then did Mellamir notice for the first time that she could see not just trees but rocks as well.  
  
"There used to be a path," Treebeard said, "a clear path through the trees. There was a time when Fimbrethil and I would walk this way together, long years ago; but I have not come here for ages. The forest has taken back the road."  
  
"What is this place? What are those mountains? And who is Fimbrethil?"  
  
"You are a hasty child. Three questions in one breath," Treebeard laughed. "Those are the Misty Mountains. Beyond them lie Rivendell and the Sea. I have my home there, at the foot of the mountains where the forest meets the rock. Or one of my homes, for I have many homes, and the whole forest is my home. Yet here we can talk in safety, and you can sleep."  
  
They were approaching the edge of the forest. A grove of willow trees blocked their way, but as Treebeard approached, the willow branches drew back, revealing a corridor framed by the trees. Beyond stood a garden, very much like the one in the Houses of Healing, with bushes and small trees. Yet this garden had no benches, and Mellamir wondered at that. What was the use of a garden without benches, how would you sit and enjoy it? She didn't ask, though, because she still wanted to hear about this Fimbrethil.  
  
Treebeard did not even pause in the gardens. He strode toward a waterfall flowing over a rock face, a cliff at the base of the Misty Mountains. The water fell so thick that Mellamir couldn't see what might be behind it. Looking around, though, she deduced that it hid Treebeard's house. As Treebeard appraoched, the water thinned and, still sitting upon Treebeard's limb, Mellamir passed through. Earth covered the stone floor, except in the corners where, instead, fresh grass was gathered into piles. Along one wall sat a bed on low legs, covered in grasses. The roof was solid rock, and cascades of flowing water veiled the rock walls. The water fell into dykes and flowed into the underground streams that watered Fangorn, Treebeard explained to Mellamir. A fire blazed in a recession in the stone wall, well behind the waters -- not a natural fire; Mellamir could not see any wood, just a sort of warm glow -- so that a far-off warmth permeated the room. Several vials of clear liquid stood on the stone table in the middle of the room.  
  
Mellamir turned around, absorbing this strange place, then looked back out through the vines. "The gardens were Fimbrethil's idea," Treebeard said absent-mindedly. "The whole of the forest was my home, and it was garden enough for me. Yet Fimbrethil wanted a special place for the birds and animals of the forest. She only asked that they keep the bedding fresh and the fire warm, and they have done their job well. They had no word of my coming, and I have not traveled here for many a day. But they want to stay here; they know what happened in Mirkwood."  
  
"Mirkwood?" Mellamir asked. She had heard that name before, but she couldn't quite place it.  
  
"Leaf and twig, you _have_ lived an isolated life. Gondorians used to be well traveled. Mirkwood is a forest. It is east of the Misty Mountains, north of Laurelindorean, not far from here. What do you know?  
  
"Long ago, Ilúvatar created all that you see, and also the Valar. Most of the Valar served Ilúvatar, but one -- Melkor, he was called -- desired his own honour and power. There was a great war, and Melkor was imprisoned. Then Sauron, hoom, hm, Sauron came, and he became Melkor's lieutenant. I do not bother myself with the great wars of Elves and Men in far-off lands. That is the business of wizards, not of Ents. I used to be anxious when Sauron dwelt in Mirkwood, but when he moved to Mordor I did not trouble myself with him any longer. After all, Mordor is many leagues from Fangorn. But I still remember, I remember the fear that filled the forest with him so near by. He tormented the animals of Mirkwood and the poor trees. All of Fangorn was afraid that Sauron, or one of the others like him, would come here."  
  
"But he didn't?" Mellamir asked.  
  
"Melkor, he came everywhere. He dashed the great lamps of Aulë and spilled Elbereth's fire, and all Middle-earth slumbered in darkness, for countless ages before Fangorn awoke. Sauron, harum-hum, he never came here. He would have, and he sent his servants -- he sent his servants everywhere, his burbrum, bloodthirsty, black-hearted, sincahonda, hoom, these, these misbegotten vermin Orcs. His spies lived in every land, and they may still. But I will not whisper any longer. He is coming back. I feel it every day, in the water running under my feet and in the wind rushing through my branches**. The animals fear, and so do I. Melkor is imprisoned, yet not destroyed; and this, hrum-ha-rum, this Sauron is free and quickly gaining power. It is as Fimbrethil told me long ago --"  
  
"Fimbrethil," Mellamir interrupted. "You've mentioned her several times but I do not know who she is. Should I?"  
  
"The whole world should know of her," Treebeard answered. "What a beauty. But it does not surprise me that you have never heard her name, for it has been a thousand years since I last saw her. You and Gandalf were brought to me by huorns. Huorns are like Ents, but they are not Ents. They are trees that we have awakened, that we taught to move and speak.  
  
"Many years ago you would have been brought to me by young Ents. In the beginning, there were Ents and there were Entwives -- and Ent-maidens as well. Fimbrethil was the most fair, the most precious of all the Ent-maidens, beautiful to look at; but her beauty was a reflection of an inner grace. She loved the trees and all that lay within and beyond our borders."   
  
"But she was an Ent-maiden, not an Ent. In the beginning, we dwelt together and walked together, but our hearts did not grow in the same ways. We Ents, we love the wild forests, the giant trees, and the slopes of the high hills; but the Ent-wives and the Ent-maidens gave their minds to other things: cherry blossoms in the spring and wild grasses growing tall in the early autumn, and the creatures of the meadow beyond the edges of Fangorn. But above all, they loved order and peace and plenty, for things to stay where they put them. And we Ents left their gardens and returned to the deep forests to seek new paths.  
  
"Fimbrethil walked with me at first, and we forged new paths together. I made this garden with her, hoping it would be enough, but her desire was not slaked. She often went to the Ent-wives and their garden. We still walked, but less and less, and finally not at all. Years passed, until at last I desired above all else to see Fimbrethil again. Earth and stone, what a beauty, what a loss. For when I went to find her, she was gone, hoom, they were all gone. We lost them."  
  
"Lost them?" Mellamir looked puzzled, trying to understand this strange talk. How could you lose your wives?"  
  
"Yes, lost them," Treebeard answered. "They loved straight lines, and straight lines do not grow in a forest. To the west was Fangorn, mile after mile, and then the Misty Mountains. To the north was Mirkwood; they would not go there. And to the south was Isengard. Saruman had not come to Isengard yet, none of the wizards had come to Middle-earth, but Isengard was no safe land then, either. It was the home of wild men who did not respect growing things anymore than Saruman does, with his mind of wheels and metal. No, the Ent-wives could not go to the south. They went east, across the Anduin, and there they built their beautiful gardens. When at last I went to find them, they were gone. We lost them." He paused. "We looked for them, of course, but wherever we went we could not find any news of them." Treebeard looked out at the garden for a long time.  
  
"That was a long tale," he said at last, "and you must be hungry." Treebeard went to the shelves in his wall and took out two stone mugs. He held his hands over one of the vials and a blue light filled them. He poured the now-coloured liquid into the mugs and handed the larger one to Mellamir.  
  
"Growing juice for growing things. Ent-draught we call it, and it keeps you growing for a long time." Mellamir shot a sceptical glance at her mug but Treebeard would not take no for an answer. "Drink up! You need your nourishment. All living things must grow as best they can." Mellamir drank her entire cup as quickly as she could, then Treebeard laid her down on the bed while he himself went to stand outside. She drifted off to sleep to the sound of Treebeard's deep, sonorous voice singing to himself:  
  
_When spring unfolds the beechen leaf, and sap is in the bough,  
  
When light is on the wildwood stream, and wind is on the brow,  
  
When stride is long, and breath is deep, and keen the mountain-air,  
  
Come back to me! Come back to me, and say my land is fair!__***  
  
And Treebeard continued his song for many verses, until dream and waking truth faded into one hazy memory; and to this day Mellamir could not say what she dreamed and what she heard Treebeard sing. That night she slept the best she had since she had left the farm south of the Pelennor years before.  
  
~*~  
  
Notes:  
  
* Translation: "She is a child of prophecy. She does not know. She cannot know. But if nothing else survives the coming war, Mellamir must survive. And she must survive intact." Thanks to Nath for the translation.  
  
** This is a paraphrase of Treebeard's statement in The Return of the King, "Many Partings": "I feel it in the water, I feel it in the earth, and I smell it in the air." It should be noted that this is said of his last meeting with Galadriel, not of Sauron.  
  
*** This is a quote from "Treebeard," The Two Towers, the song that Treebeard sings to Merry and Pippin about the ent-wives. 


	10. Life in the Shadows

Lady of Gondor Ch 9 - Life in the Shadows  
  
3002-3008; Fangorn Forest  
  
------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Gandalf had promised to come back to Fangorn as soon as he could after visiting Saruman, but he did not return in a week or even a week of weeks' weeks. He _did_ send news at the end of a fortnight, by a bird messenger, and Treebeard seemed to have word of him fairly regularly from somewhere; at least he knew when Gandalf was at Isengard or Minas Tirith and when he was traveling elsewhere. Once, Mellamir woke in the middle of the night and heard Treebeard mumbling something, many words she could not catch, but one sounded like a Gondorian name: "Aragorn." She asked him, half asleep, "Who's that?" but Treebeard only mumbled "friend of Gandalf's," then something about sleep. He promised to explain in the morning, but when she awoke Mellamir could not be sure the whole incident hadn't been a dream and so she didn't ask him again.   
  
The forest grew colder, though Mellamir noticed the difference here less than she had in Minas Tirith because of all the shadows; it never was as warm as it had been in Gondor to begin with. The squirrels, however, fled the upper parts of the trees and were now always scampering along the ground and sitting on the trees' lower limbs. Mellamir felt the chilly wind when she sat in Treebeard's upper limbs as he strode through the forest.   
  
She sat on Treebeard's shoulders often those days. The world was changing, Treebeard had said, and the animals were worried. He had to travel far each day, easing their minds and making sure everything really was in order. Orcs roamed through the outer frontiers of Fangorn, clawing at dead trees and chopping at live ones. Sometimes they took the wood but more often they simply left the corpses to rot. One day when Treebeard and Mellamir were walking Treebeard saw a rotting trunk. He didn't say anything but Mellamir felt him trembling with rage.   
  
"Treebeard?" Mellamir asked. "There certainly are a lot of Ents, or there were when Gandalf and I first came. Where are they, and why can't they protect these trees?"   
  
"Huorns," he answered. "Not Ents." He closed his eyes and hummed to himself, _Taurelilumla-tumbalemorna Tumbaletaurla Lumlanor_. At last Treebeard opened his eyes and looked at the young woman in his upper branches, seeing the questioning look in her eyes. "In your tongue that would be, 'There is a dark shadow in the deep vales of the forest.' So said Celeborn the Wise, when he and I still talked, long ago. The world has changed, but the shadow lasts."   
  
"I don't understand," Mellamir said at last. She had spent many years in Fangorn and had learned enough of the High Elvish tongue Treebeard often spoke to know that what he said to himself didn't often translate well into words she would understand, but somehow Mellamir guessed this mystery was more than a misunderstanding of words.   
  
"Celeborn is an elf, a lord of elves, in Laurelindorean. He spoke those words of the shadow in Mirkwood, but a different shadow now dwells in Fangorn. The shadow of old age and sloth. There are trees, and there are Ents. I do not understand it all myself, so I cannot explain it all to you. Some of us are Ents in the true fashion, created by Yavanna long ago. Then there are the trees. Most trees are just trees, of course, and are the same as trees everywhere. But then some trees are half awake. Some are very awake, yet some of those have fallen to the indolent shadow. They are getting, well, ah, they are getting -- Entish. That happens everyday. Huorns, we call them -- trees that we have 'woke', taught to walk, and some even to talk.   
  
"When a tree wakes, you find that some have good hearts, and some have bad hearts, just as with the other races. No, I am not talking about the wood; I know a willow by the Entwade with a rotten core but a pure heart. I speak of the soul -- Huorns have one, like men and elves. They do their job well enough, these Huorns, whatever I tell them to do, but those with a rotten heart are not much good on their own. If I let them they would harm the other trees, and they are dangerous to the animals as well. Harrum-rum, a shadow lies still in some parts of the forest, but not of Sauron -- the shadow of their evil hearts.   
  
"Few true _Ents_ still live in Fangorn. Only three of us that walked before the Darkness still live. Fangorn, Finglas, Fladrif, aye. I am Fangorn, that you know. Then Finglas -- the one whom men would call Leaflock -- he has grown sleepy. More tree than Ent, you might say. He stands by himself with the meadow grass growing to his knees, and he is covered with leafy hair. I used to rouse him in the winter, but he will not walk far even then. I am old, Mellamir, older than Gandalf. As is Finglas. And when you do not learn new things, your mind becomes weary. And if enough days pass, then you succumb to the weariness and just remain. Finglas is little better than a common tree these days. But he was great, by leaf, great once. He may yet awaken. Fladrif, or Skinbark in your tongue, lives on the slopes near Isengard, and --"   
  
"Isengard?" Mellamir asked. "Isn't that dangerous?"   
  
"Yes," Treebeard admitted, "but I do not fear for him. Fladrif is wise, strong, and nimble. He has lived many centuries longer than Saruman. The white wizard will have grown wise indeed if he can trouble Fladrif. I have not heard from Fladrif in many years; Saruman will not let anything leave Isengard, and I do not dare go myself, for if I were harmed, who would watch over the rest of the forest? But I feel certain he is safe.   
  
"There are others. Each kind of tree has its own Ent. Quickbeam and I used to talk, long ago, but he talks so fast. He makes my head spin. Ents are not hasty, but if there was a hasty Ent, it would be Quickbeam. Yet he and all the rest, they are more Enting than Ent. Mere agelings when the Ent-wives settled in their gardens, and they should have gone with them. They need too much looking after. No, Fladrif, Finglas, and myself, we are the only proper Ents left."   
  
Treebeard stopped and looked at Mellamir, seeing the worried look on her face. "Do not worry about Saruman, Mellamir," he said. "He cannot harm Fladrif, of that I am certain." And with a mighty laugh that sent the squirrels scurrying away from him up into the chilly trees, he started down the path. Mellamir, however, climbed down, branch by branch, until she dropped down to the ground. She absent-mindedly wandered over to one of the trees and gently caressed its bark.   
  
"This tree was hurt once, long ago, wasn't it?" she asked.   
  
"Not that you should be able to see," Treebeard answered.   
  
"Why not? The scar's right --" She stopped dead, then peered at the bark more closely. "I _thought_ I saw a scar. A slash, some kind of a cut. But it's gone now. Treebeard?"   
  
He sighed. "Evil Elves, long ago. Sauron captured many Elves, and some he tortured in body into those, _lailin-boruma_, those orcs horrible twisted mockings of Ilúvatar. But others he did not have to twist to his will. Like the Huorns with evil hearts they were fair on the outside but rotten inside. In those days the Elves walked in Fangorn, and these evil-hearted Elves crossed the dark mountains of Mordor and the Great River, and they traveled to Fangorn. But after they left the trees were weak, and they did not sing in the morning. Several months passed before I saw the black scars covered by vines. But when I did, I ordered the Huorns not to open themselves to any Elves -- be they evil- or pure-hearted. By then, those from Laurelindorean, the Lothlórien elves, stayed in their own realm."   
  
Treebeard was quiet for a while, watching Mellamir feel the bark and stare at the tree. "Yet you saw the scar. That wound is centuries old; you did not see it with the eyes you brought from Gondor." He chuckled to himself. "I have wondered for some time the effect of the Ent-draught on a human girl, and now I know. You are beginning to see deep."   
  
Years passed; spring should have come, but somehow the forest only seemed to grow colder. One evening Mellamir sat in Fimbrethil's garden on the bench she had made from great slabs of stone, and Treebeard stood beside her. Treebeard was telling her of the Valar while Mellamir gazed at the distant stars.   
  
"It was then, Mellamir, when Elbereth --"   
  
Suddenly he stopped. He heard footsteps approaching quickly, and then silence. "Quiet now, Mellamir," Treebeard whispered. After a long pause a familiar voice called out.   
  
"You had better let me in, Treebeard, before I grow impatient and blow away all your precious willows."   
  
"Gandalf!" Mellamir cried out and ran to him. She wrapped him in her now-lanky arms.   
  
"Why, who is this wild thing?" Gandalf asked, smiling at her.   
  
"She has grown," Treebeard said.   
  
"No taller than her brothers were at this age," Gandalf replied, now serious.   
  
"That is not what I meant," Treebeard answered.   
  
Gandalf turned and looked into Mellamir's eyes. "Yes," he said, "you are right. She has grown, not in height but in depth." He chuckled to himself. "What will Denethor think when he sees those Ent-eyes? They are worse than the elf-glow to the likes of him!"   
  
Treebeard and Gandalf spoke for a while in the same ancient tongue that Treebeard often used when talking to himself. At first Mellamir tried to listen, but her mind wandered rather quickly, easy enough when you do not know what most of the words mean. At last Gandalf turned to her. "Mellamir," he said, "it is time for you to leave Fangorn. I am going on a journey, a long one perhaps. I want to see Galadriel and talk to her about what Saruman said.   
  
"I asked him about my friend Bilbo's ring, how I guessed it might be the One, but Saruman said that the One had been lost to the Anduin long ago and was now at the bottom of the Sea. I should be happy to hear that, but somehow I am still uneasy. Bilbo found his ring in the Misty Mountains, not far from here, and used it to escape the creature Gollum; it made him disappear. So how could the ring be a simple band of gold? And if it is a magic ring, which one? Not one of the Elven rings; those are all accounted for. And not one of the rings Sauron gifted the dwarf-lords or the kings of men. Those rings all had precious jewels, but Bilbo's ring is quite plain. I do not know; but I wish to talk to Galadriel, and perhaps others.   
  
"Yet I do not want you staying in Fangorn; you have spent too much time here already and are becoming too attached to the land. And I do not want you returning to Minas Tirith. Gondor is still far too dangerous. I am sending you to Théoden's court at Edoras. He has a niece, Éowyn, and you will be good friends for each other. Treebeard, look to your western border. Saruman is not a good neighbour for you, I fear. He is still wise and we may need him some day. Yet keep watch!" Gandalf walked off toward the willows.   
  
"Gandalf!" Mellamir called, surprised to see him leaving. "Will you not stay and tell us more of what Saruman said?"   
  
"No." And with that the wizard walked through the willows and out of sight.   
  
Treebeard turned to the girl, by now nearly a woman, and his ancient eyes softened. "Mellamir, you must understand something. We talked of Fimbrethil once, and of the Entwives." He paused, searching for just the right words to make her understand what he was saying. "We lost them, and now I miss them. Often we do not appreciate what we need most, but once it is gone -- we searched for the Ent-wives, far and wide, Mellamir, but we could not find them again. And now I need her, my Fimbrethil -- her beauty, her grace, her calm. Hoo-hom, I need them all. I would have them all back, Fimbrethil and the rest. Do you not see, harrum, it is good to be a woman, even if others do not appreciate it."   
  
"Yes," Mellamir said, thinking about what Treebeard had said, "but would you have Fimbrethil stay, miserable, pretending to be what she wasn't?"   
  
The old Ent looked down at his friend with sad eyes. He led her away from the vines and back into his cave and watched her lie down in her bedding. "Go to sleep," he said gently. "Tomorrow I will take you to the forest borders and direct you toward Edoras."   
  
~*~   
  
(3008; the White Tower, Minas Tirith )  
  
Denethor, High Steward of Gondor, sat in the Steward's Chair in the Great Tower of Ecthelion, far away in Minas Tirith, gazing at the empty throne of the king. Boromir's childish question came back to him unasked: "How many years make a steward a king?" But Boromir had asked that question many years ago, not long after he had moved to Minas Tirith. Boyish foolishness it had seemed at the time, or country naïveté. Now Denethor wasn't so sure.   
  
At any rate, Boromir had long since moved beyond those childish wonderings. He had served for eight long years as apprentice to the Tower Guard. Then, two years ago, Denethor had named him the Captain of a unit of rangers in Ithilien. It was a new company, and some accused Denethor of creating it just to give Boromir something to do until his thirtieth birthday. By law, the Steward's oldest son became Captain of Gondor on, and not before, his thirtieth birthday, when he came of age. Until then, a Steward of the Captaincy was appointed.   
  
Denethor chose Lailagonde, a capable civil servant in his late sixties. He was loyal, mild-mannered, and a good organizer, perhaps a bit overly cautious. In short, good enough but lacking the brilliance needed to face real danger. The kind of brilliance Denethor already saw in Boromir; that he had once been in himself.   
  
Long ago, when Arabôr first went off to Lothlórien, Denethor had wondered what drove his brother to such an end. To go to that far-off land, full of Elvish curses, a land from which no one had returned in living memory, favourite setting of speculative and often lurid campfire tales! Denethor went to his brother's personal library and picked out a book, _Where Elves Yet Dwell_ by Elrond Halfelven. That name looked promising, and Denethor knew his story: child of two Peredril, half-man as well as half-elf, Elrond had foolishly turned his back on the world of men and had chosen to become an Elf. Yet the blood of men still pulsed through this Elrond, so perhaps reading his books wouldn't be pure idiocy. And read he did, one volume after another. When Arabôr finally returned, the two brothers often sat discussing all Denethor had read.   
  
All of that ended, though, when Ivriniel died. When Arabôr abandoned the Guard, Denethor at last saw how dangerous these idle fantasies could be. He put the books away and took up the sword. For two years he travelled with his company, along and even across the Anduin, but he couldn't concentrate on his duties. His mind ever wandered west: to bearded wives in caves, eagles, wolves not merely animal, trees that talked and other figments of an over-active imagination. He returned to Minas Tirith, to his wife, and sometime later his only child, a daughter, was born.   
  
Mellawen was a second shame: Denethor wasn't only a failure of a man on the battlefield but in the bedroom as well, unable to produce a son. By chance, however, eight years hence he gained three sons in one day. Boromir was so like his uncle at his age. Denethor wanted to protect him from book learning, but Gandalf had other plans. Fine; let the boy face the test. Better, at any rate, he should learn of these fantasies while Denethor could still guide him. The grey fool tried to teach the lad -- but with no success. Ha! Boromir showed little interest in Elves or the other free races, save of course the race of Men. He much preferred the court and sword to the wizard's rambling tales. Apprenticed to Lailagonde, the boy could have easily assumed command years ago, but he wasn't old enough.   
  
In the meantime, he put his skills to good use in Ithilien, where they were needed. Orcs had crossed through Cirith Ungol (the Black Gate itself still remained shut), and the Black Riders had been seen from the west bank of the Great River.   
  
If only as much could be said of Faramir! When the lad turned fifteen, Denethor ordered him to choose a master. Of course Faramir did not really have a choice; the law was quite clear, all sons of the Steward had to be apprenticed to the Tower Guard. But Faramir appealed to the grey pilgrim to see if he could not at least be apprenticed to one of the sages and, for once, Gandalf showed a bit of wisdom.   
  
Yet Faramir had turned to Gandalf! Now Gandalf's true purpose became only too clear. He had spent years searching for answers, and what had he found? Nothing! But the wandering fool . . . he stayed in Minas Tirith for a reason, and Denethor knew what that reason was. The wizard wanted Gondor for his own. And who wouldn't? Denethor remembered the song his father had taught him to sing as a boy:   
  
_Gondor! Gondor, between the Mountains and the Sea!  
  
West Wind blew there; the light upon your majesty  
  
Fell like bright rain in gardens of the Men of old.  
  
O proud walls! White towers! Beauties great and tales untold!  
  
O Gondor, Gondor! Shall Men sing yet in jubilee,  
  
Or West Wind blow yet 'tween the Mountains and the Sea?_*  
  
Minas Tirith, jewel among jewels, sparkling in the evening moonlight, glimmering like a pearl. And great fields, as far as the eye could see. And the Great River, mighty Anduin, waterway of the world! Of course! And the cunning wizard was trying to use Denethor's own children, his very heirs, against _him_! The mighty Steward of Gondor!   
  
How long makes a steward a king? A hundred years? A thousand? Enough. The house of the king was great, but the house of the steward was greater. Where had the king been all these long years while the men of Gondor died to save all of Middle-earth from the fury of Sauron? Was he busy? Hiding? Perhaps asleep?** And for whom did those men die, anyway?   
  
Gondor was great, and King Denethor, as he had begun to think of himself, could see it all. A testament to Gondor's strength, the Great Eye that saw wherever Denethor commanded it. For Denethor had dared to look again into the palantír, unused since the one at Minas Ithil fell to Sauron. A gift from the Elves of old, a person looking into a palantír could see what was happening around the other palantíri, and if he was strong of mind other places as well. Seven stars and seven stones and one white tree***, as the old rhyme went. Most were lost, but one at least survived: Denethor's.   
  
At first Denethor had turned his palantír to Fangorn, to see his daughter and make sure she was safe, but then he looked to his own borders, the forests, streams, mountains, hills, farms, villages, and towers, testaments to ages long past. Never to the lands where Elves yet dwelt, but what was the need? How could any other land hope to compare?   
  
But even with the help of this added vision, Denethor had not foreseen the letter he now held in his hand:   
  
_Denethor:   
  
Mellamir is still not ready to return to you, but she has learned all that she can from Treebeard for the time being. I have sent her on to King Théoden of Rohan, your ally. His niece Éowyn will be good for Mellamir, and perhaps Mellamir will be good for Éowyn as well.   
  
Your humble servant,   
  
Gandalf_  
  
Humble, indeed! This Gandalf had tried his best to conquer Gondor, that at last was clear. First Mellamir and now Faramir! True, Denethor had agreed that something must be done about Mellamir that she needed help learning to become a lady, and when Gandalf had suggested Fangorn he had agreed the idea showed promise, but he had not authorized it, nor would he have agreed to so long a stay. Six years, in that forsaken land! At first he had thought to send for her, but then Gandalf had reminded him of the prophecy, that in order for fulfill it Mellamir must come out of the forests beyond Rohan. Knowing that no one, not even the Lord of Gondor, could foil fate he reluctantly let her stay.   
  
But Gandalf, he was another story. Denethor disliked him more than ever and moved to bodily throw the wizard out of the city, but Faramir had restrained him. At Faramir's begging Denethor let Gandalf stay in the city so long as he stayed away from his other sons. But Faramir sought him out and that cursed sorcerer talked to his son, walking by night along the city walls as he had often done with Mellamir. They thought their secret was safe, but Denethor heard of it eventually. He always did. He was Denethor, Lord of the White Tower and of Gondor, who sees all!   
  
Denethor balled his fist, crushing Gandalf's letter into a small ball. Let the fool steal his daughter and son; no matter. It would not win him Gondor. Boromir would never fall.   
  
"Servant!" he called out. "Boy! Call Boromir! Call Faramir! Call me my sons. They must ride to Edoras to offer the king of Rohan our fairest jewel."****  
  
~*~   
  
Notes:   
  
* Adapted from Aragorn's song in The Two Towers, The Riders of Rohan  
  
* This is a paraphrase of 1 Kings 18:27, where Elijah says to the priests of Baal when they offer a sacrifice and it is not acknowledged, "Cry aloud, for he is a god; either he is meditating, or he is busy, or he is on a journey, or perhaps he is sleeping and must be awakened." (NKJV)   
  
** This is a quote from Gandalf in "Minas Tirith," Return of the King   
  
*** The name "Mellamir" literally means "beloved jewel." The fact that Denethor now refers to her as "fairest jewel" is indicative of his changing attitude towards her. 


	11. Reunions

Lady of Gondor Ch 10 - Reunions  
  
3008; Edoras  
  
----------------------  
  
Hundreds of miles away, Éomer stood on a turret high above Meduseld, the golden palace of his uncle Théoden. Under the ancient kings of Gondor and the first of the stewards, Rohan had been a region of Gondor and the people who lived there had answered to the king. Centuries ago, however, Éorl the Young had fought at the Battle of the Fields of Celebrant and, as thanks for his service, the Steward gave him this entire area as an independent kingdom, from the river Isen to the Anduin. The Rohirrim had lived there since that day, a free and proud people; they were known throughout Middle-earth for their courage and their skill in handling horses.  
  
Théoden, the current king of Rohan, was sixty years old and had sat on the throne for the last twenty-nine years. He was still strong enough to rule, hearty and of sound judgment and strength, but recently he had begun relying a little too heavily on the advice of others: his son Théodred, his nephew Éomer, and his many advisors. Yet Théoden still met with the nobles and made sure things within the city ran smoothly and fairly. If Éomer sometimes wished his uncle would push himself to do more, he reminded himself that many other sixty-year-olds did far less.  
  
That morning Théoden ordered Éomer to watch for a traveller from Fangorn forest, far to the north. Strange orders, Éomer thought: few went into Fangorn, and almost none returned. He wasn't looking for a man of Rohan, though, but instead someone out of Gondor. Stranger still, for shorter, and certainly safer, roads connected the two kingdoms; but those were the king's orders. Théoden had received a letter from Gandalf asking him to look for Mellamir, daughter of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. So Éomer watched.  
  
Slowly a tan dot on a brown splotch appeared on the horizon. As it approached, Éomer recognized that the brown splotch was in fact a horse, certainly not as well bred as his own but a noble beast nonetheless.  
  
Éomer raised his hand as a summons and a page, not yet eight years old, came running up. When at first Éomer didn't speak the boy looked to where his lord had been gazing, out across the field. "Who is she?" he wondered aloud.  
  
"Why, I never imagined -- she is surpassingly fair. The Lady of Gondor, who can match her ... ?"  
  
The page looked at his lord questioningly. "Sir?"  
  
"Run and tell Théoden, and hurry. Our guest approaches. No, wait. I will go myself." With that, Éomer ran, climbing down the tower quickly and racing into Meduseld in search of his uncle.  
  
~*~  
  
Éowyn had been walking along the path below and happened to overhear her brother's comments to the page. If the truth was told, she was more than a little jealous. Since her childhood the people of Rohan had always told her how beautiful she was. She had long blonde hair, smooth as silk and bright as moonbeams, and a fire in her eyes that hinted at the fire in her soul.  
  
She had only recently begun to leave childhood behind. Just a few years ago, she had often fought with sword and lance with the boys of her uncle's court, but just in the last year her chest had begun to mature so she couldn't move a sword as effectively. What's more, the boys' mothers began to complain that, while swordplay with a girl had never been exactly proper, swordplay with a young woman was simply immodest. Suffice it to say that Éowyn's hair was no longer her most fetching feature. Éowyn joined the other girls training to be shieldmaidens, an elite corps of women who would remain unmarried and defend their people if the men had to ride to war. While she enjoyed her new training, Éowyn missed the time training with her brother Éomer and begrudged the inevitable march of time that now separated them.  
  
If that was the price of beauty, then Éowyn wanted no part of it. This Lady of Gondor could have it! What was it Théoden had called her? Mellamir? Now that was something to envy. Having a boy's name, perhaps she could still act like a boy. Éowyn decided to climb a tree for a better look.  
  
Indeed, she had remained in the world of men, at least if her arrival was any indication. From the looks of it she was several years older than Éowyn, yet she didn't wear a corset -- in fact she didn't wear much of anything. She had an animal skin draped around her, just covering her knees with the part below her waist cut into wide strips so they did not ride up as she rode; under that she wore britches, also made from animal skin. She rode barefoot, and her hair was tied back into a loose pony tail, bound by a vine.  
  
Mellamir rode bareback, not in the sidesaddle fashion so popular with the women of Rohan but with her legs apart astride the horse's back just as a man might ride. There was no chaperone, no guard to protect this wild thing from the dangers of the road; apparently the bow she hung across her back was protection enough. Yet these days if Éowyn wanted to ride she had to take her brother Éomer or some other man of Rohan with her: Théoden refused to let her ride alone. And Mellamir had just come from Fangorn, well outside her own country. Alone! Éowyn was a little irked at the freedoms Mellamir of Gondor seemed to enjoy, but more than that she was curious; just who was this girl, and why did she get to do these things? Suddenly Éowyn wanted to meet her.  
  
That, unfortunately, would have to wait. By the king's decree, none of the royal court were to meet Mellamir until her brothers arrived and the three were officially welcomed to Edoras.  
  
~*~  
  
Théoden sat in his golden hall, alone with chiefs from three villages on the western borders near Isengard and his chief advisor, Gríma Wormtongue.  
  
"My lord," the first chief said, "many of our men have gone out to hunt game and have not returned. This has been happening for months."  
  
"Have your hunters never died in the fields before?" Théoden asked, furrowing his brow. "Hunting is a dangerous task, or it was when I was young."  
  
"Yes, of course," he answered, "but never in these numbers. We usually send out groups of five hunters, and occasionally one will fall to a beast. Never more than ten in a given season. But in the last month alone, fifteen have not returned -- three entire companies, not individual hunters. _That_ has never happened before."  
  
"It is as if," the second chief suggested, "they were being attacked, not by animals but by men."  
  
The third chief reached into his bag and pulled out a short sword and a helmet and set them before the king. The sword was unlike any that Théoden had ever seen; the grip was painted white and the blade had a serrated edge. The helmet was much too small to fit any of Théoden's men.  
  
Before the king could react Gríma stepped forward, faced Théoden, and bowed. "My lord," he said, "if I may. If these men are suggesting that an Orc attacked their hunters, they are living in the wrong part of Rohan. Even a child knows that Orcs come from Mordor, in the east. And our western border is well guarded. Saruman has ever been our friend and ally."  
  
"I had not said that," the third chief responded, "but I do now. There are rumours --"  
  
Théoden held up his hand to silence the chief. They all listened closely and heard the sound of rapid, heavy footsteps, running down a hall somewhere in the palace.  
  
"Éomer," he muttered. One of his men standing at the back door quickly slipped out, and a moment later the running steps slowed to a sombre but hurried walk. Théoden addressed the chiefs. "I am afraid we will have to continue this later."   
  
The doors burst open and Éomer rushed into the hall. "Uncle!" he cried, but as he approached he noticed the strangers in the hall and bowed hastily. "Pardon me, sirs, but I must speak to my lord on a matter of some urgency. If I may ... King Théoden, you asked to be informed when the traveler from Fangorn approached. I have spied her riding toward Edoras. She should arrive within the hour." He walked up to Théoden and leaned over so that only the king could hear what he said next. "I understand, Uncle, your reasons for not welcoming her yourself until her brothers arrive, but is it really necessary for her first view of Edoras to be the common gate guard? Let me --"  
  
"No, Éomer. My mind is made up. Háma will escort her to the guest quarters where she can rest until the feast to welcome the children of the Steward to Rohan. All of them. And need I remind you that Háma is merely a 'common gate guard,' as you put it, but one of my most trusted servants? He is more than worthy. You will meet her this afternoon."  
  
"But, Uncle -- she is more fair that -- than these great walls. Of gold she seems, shining like the sun, with a fire I cannot fathom."  
  
"All that glitters is not gold, Éomer," Théoden replied, a stern look in his eyes. "My mind is set."  
  
~*~  
  
As Mellamir approached the city, she found a path that led to a great gate. Just before she reached the gate it opened slowly, revealing a lone man. Robust with blond hair, he sat on a impressive, jet black horse and was dressed as if for war: his great chest was covered with mail, his quiver hung on his back, and his long spear rested against his shoulder.  
  
"My lady," he said. "If you will follow me I will show you to your quarters."  
  
He dismounted and looked to the side, beckoning the two boys standing behind the wall to come forward. He helped Mellamir down from her horse, and the boys took the two horses to the city stables.  
  
Mellamir made a polite, formal bow. "My lord Théoden --" she began but was interrupted by the guard's chortle.  
  
"I am sorry to disappoint you my lady, but I am Háma, Warden of the Gate. King Théoden is indisposed this morning. You will meet him at the festivities."  
  
"Festivities ... ?" Mellamir asked, slightly confused. "But why the delay?"  
  
"Surely you do not wish to meet him before your brothers arrive?" Háma asked.  
  
"My brothers?" she asked, no less befuddled.  
  
"Why, yes of course," he answered, suppressing a laugh of surprise with some difficulty. "Our outer scouts saw them not more than an hour ago. They should arrive this afternoon."  
  
~*~  
  
Mellamir lay on the large bed in the room Háma had shown her to, looking out the window at the trees on the horizon, wondering what Treebeard must be doing just now. Suddenly the horn call of Rohan sounded from somewhere in the city, a reminder that her brothers were on their way and would probably be arriving within the hour. She sat up, slid off the bed, and walked over to the full-length mirror on the other side of the room. Her dress was still presentable. One of the noblewomen in Théoden's court had graciously lent it to her since she didn't have anything fittingly formal to welcome her brothers and wouldn't have time to have a new dress made. This dress was a golden yellow silk with a fitted bodice and a flowing skirt landing just above her ankles, with simple bell sleeves just covering her shoulders: perfect for an almost-summer late afternoon, and suitably fancy, with the rose-coloured lace that decorated the hem and neckline.  
  
Her hair, however, was another story. Mussed from lying in bed, it stuck out every which way. But then, Boromir and Faramir were used to seeing her that way -- they were her brothers, after all. She took a fine-toothed comb from the bureau and ran it through her hair several times, then shook her hair out so that her long auburn locks fell freely down her back. She laced up the light brown sandals, also lent from a noblewoman -- she hadn't worn shoes since she'd outgrown her old ones many years ago, wandering the inhospitable terrain of Fangorn -- and ran out the door.  
  
She promptly ran into Háma. He had been coming to get her and frowned disapprovingly at the state of her hair and her lack of decorum. "Your brothers are arriving," he informed her. "We must hurry."  
  
Mellamir rushed with Háma through the crowd and, for the first time in six years, she saw her brothers. Boromir, now twenty-nine, was turning into quite an attractive young man, wearing the cloak of a soldier of Gondor and what looked like the beginnings of a shaggy beard. Faramir rode a little behind on an eight-year-old stallion gelding Mellamir had never seen before. (Boromir was riding the same steed he had owned when she left Minas Tirith, or at least one remarkably similar.) Faramir wore a wool-and-mithril tunic, the uniform of one apprenticed to the Tower Guard. Mellamir almost missed him, though, in the huge crowd of people around him, minstrels, soldiers, courtiers, and sages, but neither her father nor Gandalf could she see. She felt a slight twinge of disappointment but hardly had time to notice it, for Boromir had dismounted and was approaching the king.  
  
"My lord Théoden," he said, "I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. His lordship regrets that he could not come himself to offer you Gondor's fairest jewel; I am sure you understand, with the current situation in the east, that it is not safe for him personally nor for Gondor for him to travel."  
  
"Of course, of course," Théoden answered, though he looked surprised at Denethor's absence. "We have prepared a feast, if you, your brother, and your company would join us?"  
  
"That would be excellent," Boromir replied. "You have stable enough?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
~*~  
  
For the three days since Théoden had received Gandalf's letter announcing Mellamir's arrival, his servants had been cooking around the clock preparing fresh breads, all manner of roasted and fried meats, fresh vegetables and casseroles, early summer fruit, and sweets -- cakes, pies, puddings, candies, that sort of thing. Since early that morning stable boys, innkeepers' staff, blacksmiths' sons, and all the other lads from around the city had set tables and decorated the square. It seemed that the whole city had turned out for the celebration. Théoden, Théodred, Éomer, Éowyn, Boromir, Faramir, and Mellamir climbed onto the wooden stage that had been built the day before. Théoden turned to address the crowd  
  
"People of Rohan, rejoice! Years ago, in the days of Éorl and the Steward Cirion, son of Boromir I, Cirion gave Rohan a precious gift: our freedom. Now his father's namesake, Boromir II, son of Denethor, the current Steward of Gondor, comes to offer us another precious gift, his sister. For Lord Denethor has asked that the lady Mellamir stay here as a companion to the lady Éowyn. And a treasure she is, if appearances are any indication, for I have never seen one so beautiful who still lives, save of course my own niece.  
  
Boromir stepped forward and looked over at Théoden. "May I?" he asked. Théoden nodded, so Boromir continued. "People of Rohan, I thank you. You are a proud people, and with good reason. You are men, and warriors, descendants of an ancient and noble race. Now you offer my sister a safe place within your walls, safe from the approaching war." Théoden looked a little worried at this talk but let Boromir continue. "For this, I thank you. My greatest hope is that we may one day draw our swords together protecting all that is fair, and that some day I may come and claim precious Mellamir from your hands."  
  
The people applauded politely, not sure what to make of these words. Éomer stepped forward quickly, produced a horn, and blew a quick call. He then hung the horn on his belt and said to the crowd, "That is the signal for supper!"* The crowd cheered wildly and made for the tables; those words at least they understood and knew how to react to. Faramir looked at the table hungrily (Mellamir noticed he looked rather famished), but Éowyn put his fears to rest.  
  
"My lords," she said, "I have prepared a private meal at Meduseld." They left the crowd and walked up the hill towards the golden hall.  
  
The meal was a fine one of broiled chicken and herbs, roasted potatoes, green beans cooked with salt pork, fresh bread, and a fine white cake with bits of early summer fruit cooked in. Éowyn poured all of them a glass of wine (the best in all Edoras, though of course she did not mention that) and took her seat beside her brother.  
  
The meal was delicious, and for a while no one spoke as they all savoured it. At last Théoden observed between bites of chicken, "I was surprised that your father did not come himself. He has not seen his daughter in six years. I would certainly wish to see Éowyn if the choice had been mine."  
  
Boromir and Faramir looked at each other nervously. "Things are not going too well in Gondor, to be completely honest," Faramir admitted at last. "Where I am stationed, in Ithilien, it is becoming increasingly obvious -- and I say this in the strictest confidence, mind -- it's becoming all too clear that war is coming. Orodruin belches great clouds of smoke. I have seen Orcs all along the Anduin, and so have the farmers and traders that live in that area. People are frightened, and Father did not want to leave them without their leader."  
  
"And what's more," Boromir began," Denethor himself --"  
  
"Boromir, don't," Faramir interrupted, grabbing his brother's arm.  
  
"She has a right to know, Faramir." Boromir turned to Théoden and Mellamir. "Denethor is not well." Mellamir and Théoden both looked genuinely shocked, so Boromir hurried to quell their fears. "No, no, his body is fine." He sighed. "I wish it were something as simply cured as a physical ailment. No, a grave danger sleeps high in the White Tower."  
  
Théoden looked up from his meal at that, a look of recognition in his eyes. "The palantír."  
  
Boromir, clearly surprised that Théoden had guessed the truth, nodded. "But how did you know --"  
  
"I lived in Minas Tirith long years before you were born," Théoden laughed. "There were rumours that your grandfather Ecthelion still had one of the ancient seeing-stones, but he at least would not touch the thing. So your father has braved it?"  
  
Boromir nodded. "I believe so, at least; I daren't ask him, of course." He frowned. "I fear there is something wrong with his mind. Most of the time he appears well; you couldn't tell the difference being around him from day to day, but I was away for some time and was not there to become accustomed to the changes in Father's behaviour. I first noticed it myself six months ago. I had been out campaigning away in the south and returned home to serve my time in the Tower Guard, let Faramir stretch his legs. Father -- well, he'd changed."  
  
He closed his eyes like he was gathering up his strength. At last he continued. "I've seen some change in him, like I said. Father spends too much of his time alone. And as dangerous as the stones were of old, now they are even more perilous, for Sauron has one."  
  
"Sauron?" Théodred querried. "Where did he ..."  
  
"There were seven stones," Boromir explained. "Three far in the north; they were scattered and lost long ago. Osgiliath also had one, the greatest of them all, but it was destroyed in the Kinstrife. Another was housed at Orthanc, in Isengard --" As he mentioned that name Éomer and Théodred looked up, and Boromir stopped short.  
  
"What happened to it?" Théodred asked warily as Théoden shot a warning glance at him.  
  
"It was lost, as far as I know. Perhaps Saruman still has it. What of it?"   
  
Éomer glanced at his uncle, then answered, "Nothing," and Boromir proceeded. "That leaves two. The sixth is kept safe in Minas Tirith, well-guarded in the White Tower; and Minas Morgul also had one. But that city of course fell to Sauron long ago, and I'm sure he seized its palantír. And that's no good, no good at all." At that Boromir fell silent and refused to say anything more on the subject.  
  
"If it is uncovered," Faramir continued at last, "Denethor can see out, but others can also see in, whoever has the other stones." He sighed. "But it's more than that. I remember what Gandalf once told me. "No man should see too much, more than he can handle. But to see too little, that also is pure folly." I think Father might do both at the same time. He knows too little to judge what might be shown him, particularly through Sauron's palantír. Father admires too much the world of Men, thinks they are stronger and more capable than other races, so he underestimates others, such as Sauron. The thought that one who is not a Man could control what a lord of Men sees -- and I am certain Sauron is capable of this -- is completely foreign to his thinking. The weight of what Sauron could do to him might crush him. Seeing that would drive him insane." He rested his head on the palm of his hand and smiled grimly across the table at Mellawen.  
  
"Personally," Faramir finished, "I think he is well on the way." Everyone was silent for a long time, until Boromir spoke again, saying, "But that is sad news, and I did not ride all the way from Gondor to depress you. Mellamir, tell us about Fangorn, Is it truly as fearsome as the old tales make it out to be?" 


	12. Setting Up House

Lady of Gondor Ch 11 - Setting Up House  
  
3008-3018; Edoras  
  
----------------------------  
  
After dinner that evening Éomer and Boromir walked down through the city and climbed the steps to the city wall. There they sat on a bench, looking out at the land as they talked. Boromir took out the pipe he always carried with him, put in some weed, lit a spark with his flint, and began to smoke.  
  
Éomer looked at him in amazement. "Is this the latest fashion in Gondor, then?" he asked. "To take grass from the fields and breathe it in?"  
  
"Hardly the latest fashion," Boromir laughed, "but it is popular among the dwarves and a few others, or at least it used to be, last I heard. I enjoy it at any rate -- when Father isn't around to stop me." He grinned mischievously, then looked over the wall at Faramir and Mellamir walking down below.  
  
"Faramir!" Boromir called out to Faramir, sitting on a bench below with Mellamir. "Do you have your pipe?" Faramir tossed it up at his brother, and a moment later Boromir handed Éomer a lit pipe. Éomer inhaled, then began to cough and wheeze.  
  
"Ai!" he exclaimed. "That smarts! It burns your lungs from the inside out!"  
  
"Mellamir seems to enjoy it well enough," Boromir said with a smirk.  
  
"If I was as beautiful as that," Éomer replied, still catching his breath, "I wouldn't worry about my lungs. I'd wager there's half a company to fetch her anything she needs, whenever she needs it."  
  
"If she'd let them, I'm sure they would. But seriously, Éomer, it's good stuff. But don't inhale, just puff, like this," and he demonstrated, blowing a ragged smoke ring for good measure. He indicated Mellamir with the stem of his pipe. "You like her, don't you? I saw you staring at her all through dinner."  
  
"Can you blame me?"  
  
"I suppose she is pretty, but then I've never paid much attention." He gave Éomer a weird look. "She is, after all, my sister. Besides, the last time I saw her she was thirteen years old. If you look a little closer you'll find there is more to her than just looks."  
  
"That's what I'm hoping, Boromir," Éomer said with a smile. "If only she'll give me a chance."  
  
~*~  
  
Boromir and Faramir stayed in Edoras a week. They would have normally stayed longer, but Mellamir had picked a most inconvenient time to "return to the land of the living," as Boromir put it: less than a month before he came of age and assumed his duties as Captain of Gondor. As second son, Faramir had to organize the preparations for the feast and other celebrations, including the play _Isildur's Greatest Hour_, a tale of the War of the Last Alliance when Isildur and his father had almost single-handedly defeated the dark lord Sauron. Faramir also had to prepare to return to Ithilien: now that Boromir would be Captain of Gondor, he had to officially take command of the corps of rangers his brother had led until the last six months. Boromir would not need him as administrator until he became steward, and Gondor needed every good soldier it had. Boromir also had his own preparations, primarily a toast to Leilagonde, his long-time master at the Tower Guard, and his own coming-of-age speech, focusing on what being a Gondorian meant to him.  
  
The week was not by any standard a relaxing vacation for either of the brothers. Faramir spent several hours each day in private conference with Théoden and Wormtongue, updating them on the state of affairs in Gondor; Boromir had the much more trying task of supervising Mellamir's shopping. Denethor had given him very specific "suggestions" as to what was acceptable dress for his daughter, ruling out most articles that mellamir would have chosen (among them, britches, men's boots, and lancing gloves). After six years living among the wild things of the woods, all of Mellamir's belongings were outgrown, worn through, or permanently soiled and had been replaced by skins, certainly not acceptable apparel for polite society. So Boromir took his sister to all the seamstresses, seeing that she bought proper skirts, tops, gowns, petticoats, overcoats, on and on. He had never imagined young women needed so many layers, and in truth neither had Mellamir. Thank goodness for Éowyn: she went with them to all the different shops and pointed out what mellamir would need.  
  
Éowyn had her own incentive for shopping. She had suggested to her uncle that, after the freedom of Fangorn, Mellamir might find palace life stifling. Théoden smiled at that, guessing his niece's true motive, and proposed what had once been a small guesthouse not far from the palace that was now used for storage. Unfortunately, all the furniture had long been taken away and used elsewhere so Éowyn would need to find new furnishings, everything from beds to oil lamps. The guesthouse had actually been Boromir's idea. He knew that his sister would need a release from court life, so he had asked his father to send money, besides that which he carried, to cover the expenses of outfitting a house. But Éowyn and Mellamir didn't know about this arrangement and simply thought the king was being extremely generous for the sake of his alliance with Gondor.  
  
One afternoon Éowyn had sent Boromir off with a cartload of shrubbery for the house and was watching a seamstress measure Mellamir for a new dress. "Your brothers certainly are something else," Éowyn said. "Very noble."  
  
"Oh, Boromir's always been like that," Mellamir replied, "at least since he moved to Minas Tirith. But Faramir ... "  
  
"Yes?" Éowyn smiled, her curiosity piqued.  
  
"He's changed somehow," Mellamir continued. "He has always been a perfect dear, but ... well, he used to be sort of a goof. Not in a bad way, but he would get in some sort of trouble, and you would catch him, and he would just give you this huge grin of his."  
  
"Surely not Faramir!" Éowyn exclaimed. "But he's so ... serious."  
  
"That's Father for you," Mellamir replied, smiling. "It doesn't surprise me a bit that being raised by him would turn a clown into a true stoic. Not that Faramir was ever a clown in a bad way, but he always seemed to have a smile on his face. Now, though -- I'm not sure I like it." She frowned. "Don't get me wrong, Father loves a song as much as the next sovereign, but laughter always seemed sort of out-of-place around him."  
  
"It's good for him, I suppose," Éowyn said at last.  
  
Mellamir nodded. "Yes, I suppose so. After all, he's a prince in all but name,* and he'll have to act like it." She nodded again. "And I'm sure the old Faramir is still there, buried down --" but she broke off, sucking in her breath as the seamstress pulled the strings on a corset she was fitting to Mellamir. "Do they have to tie them so tight?" she asked, breaking out into a grin.  
  
Éowyn laughed. "Welcome back to the world of Men."  
  
But Faramir wasn't the only one who had changed. In his daily meetings with Théoden, Faramir noticed a difference in Wormtongue, and not for the better. Ever since he was old enough to defend himself on long journeys from Gondor, Denethor had sent Faramir with Boromir on trips to all the kingdoms of Men, to test and strengthen the old alliances. That had, of course, included Rohan.  
  
Years ago, just after his fifteenth birthday, Faramir had visited Edoras for the first time. Wormtongue was just one of the king's many advisors then, but Faramir hated him immediately. Something about the man reminded him of a slithering snake; unfortunately, the king did not feel the same way. Over the years Théoden seemed to put more and more trust in Wormtongue's advice; now the snake went so far as to whisper in the king's ear.  
  
On the third day after the feast Théoden finally called the three chieftains back to discuss the question of Orcs in the western villages. After hours of watching Gríma listen, whisper, and speak for the king, Faramir said through clenched teeth, "A private word, my lord, if I may."  
  
"Yes, I believe we're done here," Théoden replied, nodding. "Gentlemen, I will send riders to protect you if you like, but without proof I cannot risk open war. I'm sorry."  
  
"And a most gracciousss decision, my lord, and wise --"  
  
But Théoden silenced his advisor with a curt hand gesture. "Lord Faramir has asked for a private word. If you will excuse us." All the men bowed and left the room. "Now," Théoden asked as he attempted to rub ghe exhaustion from his eyes, "what is it?"  
  
"Gríma," Faramir replied. "He is poison, my lord, and I fear --"  
  
"You are very brave, Lord Faramir of _Gondor_, and you speak boldly -- too boldly, and about matters that are none of your concern. Is this the way in your father's court?"  
  
"No, but --" he began  
  
"And it is most certainly not the way here," Théoden continued furiously, "for strangers from distant realms to presume they know best how to govern our lands."  
  
"I am not trying to interfere," Faramir began, "but this Wormtongue --"  
  
"Is a loyal servant," Théoden snapped. "I can see that you do not like him; you do not have to. But it would do _you_ well to remember who is guest and who is king. I am perfectly capable of choosing my own advisors."  
  
"That is, of course, your right, my lord, but --" Faramir stopped. Théoden was looking at him disapprovingly. "That is all. Thank you for your time." Faramir bowed formally and quickly walked out of the throne room.  
  
~*~  
  
Faramir and Théoden didn't speak again until the day he and Boromir left for Gondor. The citizens of Edoras went about their usual business that day, but Théoden's household, his royal guard, and of course Mellamir came to see the brothers off. The sun was covered by low clouds, making the day hazy. Boromir, Faramir, and the rest of their entourage sat on their horses in front of the gate, and Théoden's Éorlingas lined the city wall, their long spears resting against their shoulders. Théoden stood with Théodred, Éomer, Mellamir, Wormtongue, and Mellamir in front of the door.  
  
Boromir and Faramir walked toward the king and bowed. Boromir said, "My liege, thank you for your hospitality, and thank you for safeguarding my sister. You have my gratitude." Many other things he said to the king, what ceremony required of him, and then for a moment he looked at Mellamir as if contemplating what to say to her. In the end, however, he just bowed and returned to his horse. He showed little emotion, and someone who knew him less well than Mellamir did might have assumed this farewell to his sister meant little to him, but Mellamir knew it was precisely because he was so filled with emotion that he said little. They had already said their farewells in private, and Boromir would not risk losing control of himself in front of his men to repeat them.  
  
Faramir also made his farewell. While his brother spoke to the king his eyes had drifted to Wormtongue; now he lowered his head in a sign of humility, and the anger in Théoden's eyes died down some. "As my brother has already said," Faramir began, "you have our gratitude, for all your kindnesses. I hope -- er -- that you will not allow any indiscretions on my part, any errors of judgment and protocol, to reflect poorly on my country. I apologize for anything I might have said, or left unsaid." He bowed and took a step toward Théoden, shaking his hand.  
  
Faramir drew away his hand and walked away. Only then did Théoden notice the slip of parchment that now sat securely in the palm of his hand. He opened it and, when he had read it, he was surprised both by the young lord of Gondor's daring and by his tact. The note read, "Beware of serpents, my lord. You of course know your own people best, but I am reminded of the words of Brego, grandson of Éorl: 'The shadow spreads and engulfs, while the unwatchful are unaware until the blade is nigh their neck.' Sauron is too wise to attack on only one front." Théoden disagreed, of course, but this time at least Faramir had shown fitting humility. He smiled and turned to watch the parting of brother and sister now occurring a few paces to his right.  
  
Faramir kneeled in front of Mellamir, kissing her hand. They spoke a long time quietly in their own language, and tears rolled down Mellamir's cheek. Faramir handed her his handkerchief and stood up. They embraced, and he took a step back, preparing for the formal farewell of their kind. He closed his eyes, then said in the Common Tongue, "Stay here. It's safe, and a lovely country, so near the forest. Stay away from Father."  
  
"Faramir?" Mellamir asked, wiping the tears from her eyes.  
  
"Oh, I'm all right," he said, forcing a smile. "He just scares me sometimes, but these are scary times anyway. I want you to stay here. Stay pure." With that he turned around and joined his brother. With one last yearning glance to his sister he mounted his horse and set off with the company for Gondor.  
  
After the guests had left, life in Edoras slowly returned to normal. Mellamir and Éowyn's lives settled into a sort of schedule. They rose early every day, Éowyn because she liked to wake before the rest of the city did and Mellamir to write her poetry. Since she had left Fangorn, everything Mellamir saw, heard, or felt seemed to demand she commit it to verse.   
  
After a light breakfast, the two went to the palace and sat in Théoden's court all morning, listening to the complaints from distant townships and the merchants bringing gifts. When Mellamir first arrived the mornings were usually full with merchants bringing gifts. Times were good, and often a wisely-given foal, a pound of exotic fruit or a new dress for the king's niece or long-term guest from Gondor might mean a small pile of gold in the years to come.   
  
There were also the nobles presenting their sons and daughters. Théodred was of marriageable age, according to the customs of the Rohirrim, and Mellamir soon would be. Some distrusted her; she was, after all, a foreigner and had spent many years in Fangorn, not to mention the boyish manners she had acquired -- though, admittedly, those were growing less obvious as time went on. And she was daughter of the Steward; that was something to consider indeed. What's more, she had no father or brother to arrange her marriage here, so if she were to choose one of the sons of the nobles, surely her family would acquiesce. The prospect was tempting, and most of the lords of Théoden's court were not overly bothered by the prospect of a foreign daughter-in-law; in fact, those with no sons of the right age to speak of seemed to produce nephews and distant cousins to court the lady from Gondor.  
  
Yet Mellamir would have no part of these courting rituals. She was not interested in suitors of any description and seemed content to live each day as it presented itself to her. And she found means to occupy her time. When she first arrived Théoden had asked her to tutor Éowyn in Gondorian lore and customs, thinking it might help her make a good match among the Gondorian gentry if she some day chose that path. Éowyn seemed no more interested in marriage, be it to a Gondorian or a Rohirrim, than did Mellamir, but she grudgingly studied two afternoons a week. After all, her uncle had granted them the guest house, and he was letting her continue her training as a shieldmaiden.  
  
In days long past the daughters of kings would often commit themselves to maidenhood for a period of time before they married. They were trained in arms and would defend and lead their people, should the king and his men have to ride off to war. Yet it had been years since the daughters of kings or even the lesser nobles had chosen such a path. True, daughters of merchants, artisans, or peasants might pledge themselves for a time, if no suitable match could be found; soldiers often married such women. But a noblewoman? Unheard of!  
  
And yet Éowyn trained on. She had lost both her parents while she was still young, and if something brought her happiness, then her uncle was inclined to allow it, for a while at least. She was only thirteen, after all, and didn't need to think of marriage quite yet. So the commanders allowed it for a time and asked no questions. By the time she was fifteen her continued presence drew a few raised eyebrows, and when she turned seventeen her uncle asked if she shouldn't spend more time in Meduseld and less on the field.  
  
She also spent much of her time in the healer's house. This was an activity Théoden approved of. Even as a shieldmaiden she should know how to bind wounds and set bones, and as a wife a knowledge of basic healing was essential. And it eased her own suffering, to help others. More and more Éowyn had begun to blame herslef for her mother's death, thinking that perhaps she could have saved her, and if studying medicine helped that old wound heal... Most importantly, though, it forced her to spend time around the women who worked in that house. There she learned potion-brewing and how to clean wounds, and also how to speak softly and make herself unseen.  
  
As much as she tried to fight it, Éowyn and her brother Éomer started to take very different paths. She, as a shieldmaiden, spent her time training with the women, learning the art of defense. But Éomer would be a rider like his father. He quickly mastered the art of the sword and the spear, and by his twentieth birthday he could guide his horse using only his legs, leaving his arms free to wield a weapon. Around that same time he began going on expeditions with Théodred into the wild. Part of this was to give him experience, but Rohan also faced a very real threat. Regardless of Wormtongue's constant protests that Orcs came from the east, the men of the Westfold continued to die, and the women more and more felt the need for protection.  
  
So as Éomer and Théodred spent more and more time outside of Edoras, Éowyn and Mellamir spent more time alone together. They would train and study together, and as Éomer was now no longer available Théoden allowed Éowyn to ride with Mellamir for company. They often prepared their own meals in the guesthouse they shared and only came to court so often as courtesy demanded.  
  
This continued on for several years, until at last Mellamir had the dream that drew her back to Minas Tirith.  
  
~*~  
  
Notes:  
  
* Credit for this phrase goes to Isabeau, who used it in her story "Captain My Captain." 


	13. Night Visions

Chapter 12 - Night Visions  
  
3018; Edoras and Minas Tirith  
  
------------------------------------  
  
Mellamir was standing somewhere high -- she wasn't sure where, but probably some sort of a tower -- looking out over the field. Suddenly the field sped past her, turning into hills, woods, then more hills, and rocky cliffs. Up over the cliffs until at last she saw a circle of black boulders in the distance, approaching fast. Now she was through them, looking out over a barren wasteland, solid sheets of exposed rock and scorched plains (or at least they would be plains, if they still had grass), and trees rotting on their sides, torn up roots and all.  
  
Straight ahead was a great tower, shimmering black, shooting straight out of the ground through the clouds. And then Mellamir heard popping sounds, saw bright streaks of light through a window. Heard screams. Suddenly she was flying, shooting through the clouds herself. And before she knew what had happened Mellamir felt solid rock under her feet. She looked around and noticed a bunched man pacing across the floor. He turned in the moonlight. Mellamir caught a raggly gray beard and a most distinctive nose. She heard footsteps behind her and ran over to the hunched man.  
  
"Gandalf! Watch out! Gandalf!"  
  
And then she heard another voice behind her. "Mellamir! Wake up."  
  
Slowly the black tower faded away. Mellamir's fists unclenched, and she felt the rich blankets under her arms. Warily she opened her eyes and saw Éowyn standing over her, concerned.  
  
"A dream?" Éowyn asked.  
  
"A warning."  
  
~*~  
  
By the second hour Mellamir was dressed and packed, her horse saddled, and she stood waiting outside the king's quarters. Not long after, he and Wormtongue came out to go down to breakfast.  
  
"Good morning, my lord," she said, ignoring the surprised look on Theoden's case and the annoyed one on Wormtongue's. "I wonder if I might have a moment of your time."  
  
"Good morning, Mellamir," Théoden replied, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "Of course, go on."  
  
She looked uneasily over at Gríma but decided she did not have time to waste. After a moment she continued, "I must return to Minas Tirith. Immediately."  
  
A look of panic quickly spread across Wormtongue's face; Théoden was much slower to react. He yawned, then asked, sleepily, "Leave us? But why?"  
  
"Only for a little while," she reassured him. "I had a vision last night about Gandalf. He's in trouble, or will be soon enough."  
  
"That is grave news," Théoden answered, "but two tragedies will not make one right. The road is dangerous. You could be ambushed by orcs, or --"  
  
"Or I could stay here and do nothing," Mellamir interrupted, "and Gandalf could die, and this great business of his could fail. Who knows what the end-price would be?"  
  
"Lady Mellamir," Wormtongue interjected, "your brother Faramir specifically asked you to stay here, where you are safe. If you would but write a letter --"  
  
"No, Master Wormtongue," Mellamir replied. "Gandalf would never listen to a letter."  
  
"As you wish," Théoden said at last. "It is not to my liking, but you are not our prisoner. I will not keep you here against your will, though I had hoped you would respect your brother's wishes. But I won't have you riding across the whole country completely unprotected. Neither would have your father nor your brothers in these times, as you well know, and if you were harmed while under my watch, the repercussions would extend beyond just you and I. I insist you take a guard."  
  
Mellamir opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. She did not have the time to argue the point, and Théoden was right; her own father would have demanded no less. She bowed her head, then replied, "Éomer, then."  
  
When Éomer came down to breakfast half an hour later Mellamir tossed him an apple, turned him right around, and marched him back upstairs. "We are going on a little trip," she informed him. Éomer looked at her, a surprised but not altogether displeased expression on his face, and Mellamir answered his unvoiced question, "To Minas Tirith. I've had a vision, and I must warn Gandalf immediately."  
  
Éomer chuckled to himself at that. He didn't put much trust in dreams and visions -- most Rohirrim didn't -- but if Mellamir wanted to return to Minas Tirith, a dream was as good an excuse to visit the White City as any. And this trip meant the better part of a month, much of that time by themselves on the road, in which to better acquaint himself with the Lady of Gondor. So he shook his head, but he also went upstairs and packed.  
  
The morning they set out was miserable. Whereas Mellamir had dreamed of a slow, gentle rain, the waking world was much more cruel. The wind on the plains forced the drives of rain down on the travellers, quickly soaking through their cloaks and painfully striking their faces. Yet Mellamir pressed on, pulling her hood close around her person. The road was muddy and they often had to dismount and lead their horses across beams of wood that had been laid across where the road flooded.   
  
Yet they were lucky, for besides the miserable rain the journey was not particularly eventful; Théoden's worries had been in vain. Nothing as sinister as a mountain cat, to say nothing of wargs or orcs, bothered Éomer and Mellamir until at last they reached Minas Tirith. When the gates did not open immediately Mellamir rode forward and announced to the gatekeeper above, "In the name of Mellamir, daughter of the Steward, open!"  
  
At that the gates opened slowly, revealing her brother Faramir sitting on his horse. He rode out, no sign of a smile on his face. "I told you not to come."  
  
"Where's Gandalf?" Mellamir asked urgently. "I must speak to him immediately."  
  
The look on his face changed from annoyance to concern. "Not here," he said, dismounting. "He hasn't been in Minas Tirith for several months, not since early spring. Why do you ask? Is something wrong?"  
  
"I had a vision," Mellamir replied. She nodded at Faramir's horse, still blocking their way into the city. "Why can't we come in? And why are you home? What's the matter, Faramir?"  
  
"Not come in?" he said as he led his horse to the side, out of the way. He smiled gently, but he couldn't hide the look of concern in his eyes. "Minas Tirith is still your home, at least according to Father. I had just hoped you would choose to stay away, like I asked you to. I _did_ have my reasons, you know. As to why I am home -- Boromir and I dreamt the same dream, and Father has called a council to discuss it. You might be interested in it, actually. I should be there myself, but the other captains sent me to come and greet you."  
  
"Why are we standing here, then?" Mellamir asked. "Let's go."  
  
~*~  
  
Denethor, Boromir, and nine old men with long gray beards sat in a room high in Ecthelion, several stories above the throne room, around an old oak table in cushioned oak chairs. Even in the full heat of summer this stone tower stayed frigidly cold, and as the room's one fireplace stood empty the captains sat up straight more from chill than attention to their lord and steward. Windows were cut through the marble walls looking out to the Seventh Circle far below, and between these windows embroidered battle standards hung, relics from ages long past; but besides that the room was quite bare. All those present stared at the two empty chairs to Denethor's right.  
  
A knock came at the door. "Come in," Denethor bellowed, and Mellamir and Faramir entered. Faramir had of course invited Éomer to the council, but Éomer had excused himself, claiming that he was hungry and exhausted. In truth, he knew this was Gondor's business, not Rohan's, and he had not wanted to intrude; yet the hunger and exhaustion were not entirely feigned, as Mellamir had forced him to ride hard that last night with little rest.  
  
None of them, though, noticed the lord of Rohan's absence. Mellamir's eyes rested on her father who seemed much older than she remembered. That was understandable, she supposed, since she had not seen him in over fifteen years, but he seemed to have aged more than that. -Foolishness, she told herself, of course a father seems nearly immortal in the eyes of his thirteen-year-old daughter. He seemed unmoved by her presence, but she excused that as well; Denethor had never displayed his affection in public. She could not ignore, however, the weariness in his eyes or his face which looked chaffed from the wind, though it was sallow, as if he hadn't seen the sun in uncounted weeks. When she entered he had been gazing at the ceiling, like he was thinking about some treasure he had hidden high up in the tower.  
  
If Denethor was unmoved by Mellamir's presence, he was the only one. The captains were all amazed that this could be the same little girl who had left Minas Tirith with Gondor years ago. Even after more than a week on the road she appeared far more ladylike and noble than she ever had when she lived in Minas Tirith. She stood tall yet did not seem proud, and if her face was more tanned than they might have wished, her gentle smile eased any suspicions they might have harboured that life among the horse-lords would ruin her forever. At last Boromir spoke, and all those around re-focused their attention on the task at hand.  
  
"Mellamir," Boromir said, "it is so wonderful to see you." He walked to the doorway and embraced his sister, then the three of them sat down. Denethor frowned at this public display of emotion, and Boromir smiled nervously at his father. "Shall I tell our dream?"  
  
Denethor nodded curtly. "Now that we are all here, by all means."  
  
Boromir looked at his sister for a moment, a sad look in his eyes, before he began. "The eastern sky grew dark, and I heard thunder in the distance; yet in the West a pale light shone, and a voice sounded, far-off but clear, telling me:  
  
_Seek for the Sword that was broken:  
  
In Imladris it dwells.  
  
There shall be counsels taken  
  
Stronger than Morgul spells.  
  
There shall be shown a token  
  
That doom is near at hand,  
  
For Isildur's Bane shall awaken,  
  
And the Halfling forth shall stand."*_  
  
"That's nothing but nonsense," one of the captains said curtly. "Isildur's Bane is all around us: Orc-arrows, to our left and to our right."  
  
"Aye," another answered him, "but how does an arrow 'awaken,' that's what I want to know."  
  
"And what's a Halfling?" a third asked. "Wizard's mischief, more than likely."  
  
"Not wizard's mischief," Mellamir replied. "I can at least answer that. Gandalf told me about them, true, but I have also read of them in the ancient tales. I believe they are called the Periannath. The Rohan have legends that mention them by the name holbytlan, halfling, like the poem in my brother's dreams, but their tales do not record much of the people. They live in a land far away, though it is rumoured they answered to the kings."  
  
"The dream at least is true," Faramir said, "for I dreamt it as well."  
  
"Wizard's mischief, to listen to dreams," Denethor muttered under his breath. He looked down at the table but not before all present noticed the hatred that burned in his eyes. Faramir spoke first.  
  
"Yet we were not the only ones to dream of late," he said. "Mellamir, will you tell us of your dream?"  
  
"In truth," Mellamir replied, "I did have a vision several nights ago. I was looking out over the land from Edoras and suddenly I saw a tall black tower, and Gandalf was standing on top of it. He was in danger. I came here to warn him."  
  
"Let the fool fend for himself," Denethor snapped.  
  
Most of the men nodded in agreement, but Faramir met his father's eyes. "Our situation is desperate," he said. "Orcs pass Minas Morgul every day, and the black terror grows ever stronger. And now Gandalf is in danger, the lady Mellamir tells us. Be he fool or wise, you cannot deny that he is strong. Let us seek Imladris, if there we may find the wisdom needed to beat back this Morgul threat. But what is it? A strange word."  
  
"Rivendell," Denethor answered. The captains looked at him in surprise, all wondering the same thing: where had their lord heard that strange name? "Simply because I value the worth of men," he replied, guessing their question, "I am not completely uneducated about distant lands. I once read of the Elves, when my brother was in Lothlórien. Rivendell is an Elvish city, far away in the West. It is said to be well-hidden, though I am certain a man could find it."  
  
"Then let me go," Faramir replied. "I am the logical choice. Many say that I am not a soldier fit for Gondor. And while I would die for my country -- and perhaps will, someday soon, if I read the signs correctly -- my strength is in wisdom. If we are to seek for Imladris, and find counsel there, then the quest should be mine."  
  
But Denethor simply laughed. "You are no soldier fit for Gondor, that is true enough. I do not doubt that you will die one day, more than likely by your own weapon as you stumble running from your foes. You do not love the sword for its sharpness nor the arrow for its swiftness, but only what they defend, in your mind: Elvish songs and foolish grey wizards. I have no need to send you far to the north to bring back word of our doom. Every time I look on you I see it, for you are all the evidence that I need to prove that the glory and blood of Westernesse is nearly spent."  
  
Faramir sat there quietly, looking down at the table, apparently very interested in the knot in the wood in front of him. Mellamir stared at him, saw his set jaw, waited for him to defend himself, but when after several seconds he said nothing she looked past him to the Steward, a fire in her eyes. "Father, how can you --"  
  
"You have spent many years with the Rohirrim, Mellawen," Denethor interrupted, "away from your people, so I will excuse your indolence. I know your brother's uses, and they are few indeed."  
  
The blood rushed to Mellawen's face, and she looked like she might argue with him. Boromir stood up quickly, knocking over his chair in his haste, a look of panic on his face. "Peace, sister," he said quickly, then looked over at Denethor. "I will find this Elvish city, if you will send me, Father. I am the older son. The responsibility is mine. Gondor will rise or fall on my word one day, the Valar willing." He looked down at his brother with pity and perhaps a bit of fear in his eyes, then said resignedly, "My task begins today."  
  
The anger quickly melted away from Denethor's face as he smiled at Boromir. Now this was a son he could be proud of.  
  
~*~  
  
An hour later Boromir, Faramir, and Mellamir came out of Ecthelion's great doors and crossed the courtyard of the Seventh Circle to the lodging Boromir and Faramir shared. The afternoon sun shone down on them, a near-blinding white. "It will be nice to get out of the city," Boromir mused. "See a bit of the world."  
  
"Yes, it would," Faramir answered in a chilling voice. Mellamir looked at him. This was not the brother she remembered; there was no sparkle in his eyes, no laugh in his voice. Faramir seemed fey, more Denethor's martyr than wizard's pupil. The three walked in silence across the courtyard and up the marble stairs to the third-floor lodging, saying no more.  
  
Mellamir and Faramir began to help Boromir in his packing. he was to leave as soon as he was ready, with no going-off ceremony, no feast or dance, no fanfare of any kind. Gondor was preparing for war, yet the people could not know that their situation was so desperate that the Steward would send his favourite son the farthest reaches of Middle-earth. not yet.  
  
At last Faramir asked the question weighing on his heart. "Why does he say those things to me, Boromir?" Faramir asked as he took a spare cloak out of Boromir's bureau and folded it. "I'm his son, you know." Mellamir, who had stayed in the other room gathering food for the beginning of her brother's journey, stopped her work and stood by the door and waited for her brother's answer.  
  
"Yes, I know," Boromir said at last. "And I think he knows, too. But, Faramir -- you two just seem to upset each other, somehow."  
  
"So now it's his fault?" Mellamir asked, coming into the room and sitting down on the bed. "Boromir, he practically called him Isildur's Bane!"  
  
"I know, I know. But Mellamir, Faramir, understand -- Faramir, you remind him too much of himself," Boromir answered.  
  
"What?" Faramir cried. "Me, like him? Why, we're nothing alike. Maybe if we had something in common he'd show me a bit of respect. A bit of love."  
  
Boromir frowned. "He _does_ love you, Faramir," he said at last, then added, "Seriously," seeing the shocked look on his brother's face.  
  
"Well, he's got a funny way of showing it," Faramir answered. "What was it he said the other day when I accidentally knocked over his wine? Oh, yes -- 'If Sauron had more oafs like you in his army, we just might win this war.'"  
  
"He didn't mean that and you know it."  
  
"Boromir," Mellamir asked, "how can you make excuses for him?"  
  
"Mellamir," Boromir sighed, letting his frustration show a bit more than he intended, "you're not here every day like I am, you don't understand --"  
  
"If he didn't mean it, then why did he say it?" Faramir interrupted. "All I did was spill a bit of wine. Why, if _you_ had spilled the wine... "  
  
"But you're not me, and that's what makes the difference." Boromir sighed again. "You scare him, Faramir. As I said, you remind him too much of himself." Faramir started to laugh and Mellamir to protest, but Boromir shook his head seriously "No, wait. Just listen to me, both of you. I didn't say you were like him, Faramir; I said you reminded Father of himself, or perhaps of what he fears he could become. You're not the only one that loves libraries, you know; Father likes legends, too, but he thinks them childish. 'Stories for the babe, and a sword for the man,' as the saying goes. No, Grandfather taught him that stories are child's play, and when Father sees you still reading the old scrolls, it worries him. He thinks -- well, he's afraid you'll turn out like Arabôr. He keeps waiting for you to grow up and doesn't realize you already have. But if Denethor had had an older brother, if he hadn't been destined to be Steward from birth -- I think he could have turned out very much like you. And that scares him because he sees you growing into the man he might have become, but was always told was not as valuable as -- well, a man like me."  
  
"So what would you have him do, Boromir?" Mellamir asked, more softly this time. "Forget the scrolls and lay both hands to the sword? But he's not like you."  
  
"So now I'm just a simple soldier, with no understanding of anything but orc-slaying?" Boromir asked, a hint of annoyance slipping into his voice.  
  
Their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. Boromir left to answer it. When he had left Faramir looked at his sister and smiled -- that smile was still there after all! -- and reached over for his sister's hand. "It's all right, Mellamir. I'm still here, deep inside. And Father, he's not so --" but he stopped short as Boromir re-entered. "What was that about?" Faramir asked.  
  
"A boy from the armoury with my weapons," Boromir answered.  
  
"Listen," Mellamir said, "I didn't mean what I said, not like it sounded at least --"  
  
"I know," Boromir said, grinning at his sister.  
  
"But, seriously," Faramir said a minute later, "if he can't love me for who I am --"  
  
"He loves you, I think," Boromir answered. "How could he not? You're his son."  
  
"Sometimes I wish I wasn't." Faramir looked at his brother, suddenly serious.   
  
Boromir reached down and ruffled Faramir's hair, then grasped his shoulder. "I know," he said, and let go to finish packing. When they were done the three left the apartment and headed down toward the stables in the Fifth Circle. Boromir walked over to his horse Melonef and began brushing him in preparation for their journey as Mellamir secured his saddle-bags. Faramir leaned against the wall and watched. After several minutes he sighed loudly. "What am I going to do, Boromir? We can hardly stand each other, Father and I, when we have you to keep us apart. How are we ever going to get along without you."  
  
"I do not know," Boromir replied, shaking his head. "But you'll manage. Just try to understand him, Faramir. Remember that he hates what you represent, but he doesn't hate you."  
  
Faramir smiled sceptically over at his brother. "I wish I could believe that," he said.  
  
"He is under a lot of stress, you know that," Boromir replied.  
  
"Yes," Faramir agreed, "and it's only going to get worse."  
  
"Faramir --" Mellamir began but Boromir waved her off.  
  
"There's no help for that. All you can do is please yourself, I suppose." He patted Faramir on the back, then looked at his sister. He shuddered a moment, then said, "Osgiliath has fallen, sister."  
  
Mellamir dropped the strap she had been tying and braced herself against the stable wall. "Osgiliath has -- what?"  
  
"We were there," Boromir replied, busying himself with the task at hand and avoiding his sister's gaze, "Faramir and I, in the company that held the last bridge. Mordor is unleashed, and the orcs will soon cross the Anduin and make their way toward the Pelennor. They may grant us a year, two years, until their master is ready. But . . ."  
  
Mellamir just nodded. The colour slowly returned to her face, and after a few moments she returned to the strap, anything to occupy her mind.  
  
"But think, Faramir," Boromir said, chuckling to himself, "you won't have to worry about Father. He'll send you back out to Ithilien as soon as possible; he couldn't afford to keep you in the city, even if he wanted to. He needs you, whether he likes it or not."  
  
Faramir grabbed a brush and helped his brother comb the horse, then fed the horse some carrot sticks while Boromir finished saddling him; Mellamir stood silently in the corner, deep in thought. Finally they left the stable and walked out to the near-deserted street.  
  
Boromir mounted Melonef, then looked down at Faramir and Mellamir. He leaned over and placed his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Faramir, even if he can't love you, make sure that you always love him. Never stop; don't let him rob you of the right to love your father. That's the greatest gift you could ever give him -- and yourself." He gently kissed his hand and lowered it to his sister's cheek, then straightened up, kicked his heel against Melonef's leg, and rode out of Minas Tirith into the dying afternoon sun.  
  
~*~  
  
Notes:  
  
* This poem and the prior description appear in FOTR, "The Council of Elrond." The poem is an exact quote, and the description is based on but not identical to Boromir's description given in that chapter. 


	14. The Council of Elrond

Lady of Gondor Ch 13 - The Council of Elrond  
  
3018; Rivendell   
  
----------------------------  
  
Far away in the northwest corner of Middle-earth something happened that had not occurred for quite some time: not one but four hobbits were leaving the Shire. What's more, they left not for a week or two in Bree but quite possibly forever. No hobbit had left the Shire permanently in the last seventeen years.  
  
For seventeen years had passed since that long-remembered September the twenty-second. Bilbo Baggins had given a birthday celebration so extravagant that it had depleted provisions from Buckland to the Towers, not to mention the required supplies sent in from as far away as Dale and the Lonely Mountain. Gandalf was there as well, and that, of course, meant fireworks. The kitchen tent was busy all day long, manned by real dwarf chefs, continually replenishing the huge party with the very best in hobbit cuisine, ale, and fine wine. And then came the speech.  
  
Bilbo invited nearly every hobbit in the Shire to his birthday parthy, but he also singled out his 144 favourite hobbits for the dubious honour of attending his birthday dinner. These invitations were much prized because they only went to Bilbo's most-loved friends and family and because the food at the dinner was rumoured to be even finer than what was available from the kitchen tent. Yet these invitations were a mixed blessing: those at the dinner were sure to hear a speech, and possibly even some of the dreaded poetry.  
  
They were not disappointed on either count. It snowed food and rained drink*, as they say in the Shire, even more so than at other parts of the party field. And Bilbo did, in fact, give a rather long-winded speech. While he spared them poetry he did recount some episodes from his adventures fifty years earlier. The 144 expected this, of course, but they were surprised in many other ways. Bilbo named an heir, his nephew Frodo (much to the chagrin of his Sackville relations), said good night and disappeared in a most unexpected explosion. Those hobbits who still could sit up bolted upright in their seats, several demanded more wine to remedy their shock, and in the ensuing confusion no one ever found what became of Old Bilbo. He was never seen by any hobbit in the Shire again, though Frodo always insisted his uncle still lived.  
  
Bilbo's disappearance seemed old history to most hobbits - discussed in the inns occasionally when a better topic did not present itself - and would have been wholly unimportant except for a gold ring he left Frodo. On Gandalf's advice, Frodo had kept it both secret and safe, never using it to disappear like his uncle had on occasion. Time passed in the Shire, touching all things but Frodo, who at fifty didn't look a day past thirty-three. Then Gandalf returned to the Shire and told Frodo what he had discovered at last from the scrolls buried in Minas Tirith's libraries: the ring had once belonged to the Dark Lord Sauron, and now Sauron was seeking the ring with all his might. For Sauron had, at long last, heard the name "Baggins"; he knew that Frodo had his ring, and if he ever found him he would be angry, angrier and more dangerous than anything Frodo could imagine, and deadly perilous. Even worse, when Sauron took back his ring he would be so powerful that none could hope to resist him, and all Middle-earth would fall under his shadow.  
  
So Frodo left the Shire, accompanied by his gardener and friend Sam Gamgee and his cousins Merry Brandybuck and Peregrin Took. They passed through many dangers and were attacked by the feared Black Riders before they even left the Shire, barely escaping the dreaded Old Forest and at last reaching Bree, one of the few places in the world where hobbits lived in peace with men. It was the centre of Bree-land, an island of populated settlements in the vast wilderness between the Shire and the Misty Mountains. Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin stayed the night at an inn in the village, _The Prancing Pony_, and it was there that they met Thorongil, known to the Breelanders as Strider, the man Denethor thought had tried to usurp his Stewardship.  
  
In the North he was called Aragorn and was in fact one of the Dúnedain, the last remnants of the ancient Númenorean kings. He was descended in direct line from Isildur, that king of Gondor and Arnor who had cut Sauron's ring from his hand in the War of the Last Alliance. Yet the years had been hard on Isildur's heirs, and in the wild they often had to forgo the honour and comfort due them to serve their duty. The Rangers, as they were called in Bree, traveled through the wilds and kept the peoples of that area safe. The people in those parts, though, knew almost nothing of their labours and thought them ruffians. So it was that Barliman Butterbur, the owner of _The Prancing Pony_, refused to let Aragorn into the hobbits' room when he asked to see them.  
  
The hobbits ate dinner in their room and then came out into the common area, where the Breelanders begged them for songs and stories of the Shire. Shire-hobbits used to come to Bree on occasion, but in recent years these visitors had grown increasingly rare. Sam was happy just to sip his ale in peace, but Pippin told them story after story, eventually moving to Bilbo's birthday party seventeen years prior. Frodo knew it wouldn't do to have people remember his uncle's disappearance so he reluctantly sang a song Bilbo had once taught him.  
  
_There is an inn, a merry old inn,  
  
Beneath an old grey hill,  
  
And there they brew a beer so brown  
  
That the Man in the Moon himself came down  
  
One night to drink his fill.**_  
  
And on and on for twelve verses. At the end of the song Frodo jumped up for emphasis and fell off the table he had been standing on. During his tumble the ring slipped onto his finger, and Frodo disappeared from sight.  
  
He crawled into a corner and removed the ring, then claimed he had simply rolled under a table. No one believed him. Two of the inn's patrons ran off at once, and that night the Black Riders attacked _The Prancing Pony_. They were horrible men, ancient kings who had accepted rings of power from Sauron. A mortal who has a ring of power does not die but merely continues, eventually losing all control over his own life, until he is utterly controlled by the ring. And those nine kings answered to Sauron, so the nine Black Riders did what Sauron ordered them to do. Neither living nor dead, they were feared by all. They were at the battle for Osgiliath when that city fell to Mordor, and Gondor was defeated, not so much by Sauron's large army but by fear. Anyone who saw the Riders became paralyzed with terror and, out of Boromir's and Faramir's company, only four were able to master their fear and escape, including the two brothers.  
  
Aragorn led the hobbits through the wilderness, and they survived many dangers before at least reaching Rivendell. Yet they were not the only ones to journey to Elrond's house. Boromir traveled 110 days before he reached the Last Homely House. It was a difficult journey, and he lost his horse along the way, finishing on foot, but at last he reached Elrond's valley. Only a few days before Elrond had welcomed other visitors as well, for many of the free peoples of Middle-earth, who were threatened with attack, had come to ask Elrond's advice. Glóin had come, the same Glóin who had journeyed with Bilbo to the Lonely Mountain. After his imprisonment at the hands of Thranduil he was in no hurry to seek out the help of any elf, or even a half-elf, but he was the lord of many dwarves now, and he had to think of more than just his personal feelings. When Sauron's emissaries threatened his people, Glóin sought for Rivendell and now waited for the council where Elrond promised to answer all his questions. They were joined by a company of elves from Mirkwood bearing bad news for Gandalf. And Gandalf was there as well.  
  
~*~  
  
It was a cold grey morning the day Boromir finally reached Rivendell. Halfway up the path to Elrond's house he stopped in front of two twin elves, standing side-by-side blocking the path. They wore matching green silk britches and open-collared tunics decorated with fine silver embroidery, and on their feet were small boots made from deerskin. Their long brown hair hung loose down their backs, save the plait tucked behind their right ears. They stood with their arms folded across their chests and inclined their heads slightly as Boromir stopped before them.  
  
"Mae govannen, brannon uin Apanónar," the one on the right said, a smile on his lips. Boromir bowed slowly, a puzzled look on his face.  
  
The one on the right laughed. "You must excuse my brother. I am Elrohir, son of Elrond, and this is my brother Elladan. _Ada_ -- Father -- sent us to greet a visitor from a far-off land, and my brother insults you by speaking in our language instead of yours before we even know your name."  
  
Elladan smiled warmly at the man of Gondor. "I am truly sorry. I just love the look on the face of your kind when we speak Elvish. Allow me to make amends. I said, 'Well met, lord of the Afterborn.' For am I wrong in assuming you are a lord of men?"  
  
Boromir's scowl weakened; he seemed unable to stay angry around these vivacious brothers. "In a manner of speaking," he said at last. "My father, Denethor, is steward of Gondor and rules there until the king should return."  
  
"Ah, Boromir," Elladan replied. "We have had word of your coming." Boromir raised his eyebrow at that, but Elladan hurried on, "Our borders are well-watched by scouts, and none can approach without Ada knowing of them."  
  
"He sent us to welcome a lord from the south, though he did not tell us your name, and to tell you of the council," Elrohir added. "You are not the only visitor Imladris has had of late, and _Ada_ is holding a council in one hour in the central court. If you care to hear something of what is happening in distant lands --"  
  
Boromir held up his hand to silence the elf, a custom apparently understood as well in Rivendell as in Gondor. "Your pardon, I beg, but I have ridden through the night, and if the council is to meet in only one hour --"  
  
"What a poor pair of _Suilannad_* we are! Elladan, he has ridden through the night and will be sitting most of the morning in council, and what do we do? Speak in our own tongue first, keep him on hsi feet, and offer him nothing in the way of food, drink, bed or bath. My lord Boromir, right this way." And the two led him up the path.  
  
They walked for near a quarter-mile through the most beautiful woods Boromir had ever seen until at last he saw a great house in the distance. They walked on, through a courtyard full of statues and branches. As they approached the doorway, Boromir stopped, looking back over his shoulder at an old man smoking a pipe. "Is that -- is that _Gandalf_?" he asked incredulously. After hearing his sister's dream Boromir had never expected to see the wizard again.  
  
Elladan took him by the hand and led him down a wide hall. "I do not know what he is called in your tongue; Mithrandir we call him. 'Grey Wanderer' as you would say it. But come, Boromir! Your bath awaits."  
  
~*~  
  
Boromir leaned back against the porcelain tub, letting the warm water wash away his exhaustion as well as the grime of the road. There were no bubbles -- those Elvish maidens had tried, but Boromir had refused, quite emphatically -- but he couldn't stop them from pouring in some perfume. It _did_ smell nice, he had to admit to himself, but that didn't mean he preferred his bath that way. Yet he was a guest, and a gracious guest accepted what was offered him, so he did not complain.  
  
That thought amused him. Would Borlin son of Arabôr have felt the need to soak in a perfumed bath so as not to offend an elf-lord? Certainly not. Cows had to be milked and crops harvested; a farmer's son never would have had time to travel to distant lands. But he wasn't a farmer's son anymore; he was a _brannon uin Apónonar_, a lord of Men, according to these Elvish twins. What a funny idea! All these years he had simply done his duty as best he could. His birth-father was dead, and if his uncle Denethor was willing to take care of Boromir and his younger brother, then Boromir would do whatever he could to please his uncle, for Faramir's sake at least. He would answer to a new name, train as a soldier, lead troops through Ithilien. Not because he wanted to, but because it was expected of him. Right?  
  
When he and Faramir had first come to Minas Tirith, everything he had done was to protect himself and Faramir. And Mellamir, he realized; Mellamir was so fragile then, and she adored her cousins. If serving in the guard meant that Boromir and Faramir could stay in the city, then Boromir would do it for Mellamir, too. But that was years ago. Mellamir hadn't been in the city for years, and Faramir was nearly grown, capable of taking care of himself. Yet Boromir stayed on, he kept fighting, and now he travelled half-way across Middle-earth for the uncle who had become a father to him. Why had he agreed to come to Rivendell? At first, yes, it was to protect Faramir. To stop that awful fight in Denethor's chambers. But was there maybe something more to it?  
  
He had seen things, terrible things, in Ithilien and Osgiliath. Orcs crossing the mountain passes, evil men marching up from the south, black clouds bellowing from Mount Doom. And then those Nazgûl, horrific beyond description, on their winged terrors, swooping over him and his brother as they defended Osgiliath. How long could Gondor last?  
  
How different the two men he called "father" were! Would Arabôr have come to Rivendell? Yes, he would have loved to see the Elves, but would he have abandoned his family, traveled for months to lands far away and left them to defend themselves? Boromir didn't think so. Yet if Boromir hadn't come to Rivendell, what hope did Gondor have of resisting Mordor for even one more year? And if Gondor fell, then what of Faramir? How long would his brother live if Sauron had his way?  
  
Boromir heard a bell ring somewhere far off in the distance. Now was not the time for idle thought. The council would begin in fifteen minutes; time to leave the bath and get dressed. He sighed, set his wine goblet down on the windowsill next to the tray of fruit and cheese that had been brought to him, and wrapped a towel around his waist. Walking into the adjoining dressing room, he saw that one of the maids had laid out clothes not unlike the twins' outfit, regal enough but entirely too Elvish. He laughed at that; perhaps they could persuade him to soak over-long in a perfumed bath for the sake of courtesy, but he would not represent Gondor looking like an elf-prince. In the corner he found a basket containing his old clothes, waiting to be carried to the wash no doubt, and he pulled them on. Then he combed his hair, donned his cloak, and hurried to the council.  
  
Boromir walked out of the room and down the hall, out into the courtyard where he had earlier seen Gandalf. Gandalf was no longer there, though, and the benches had been replaced by a low table and around twenty chairs arranged in a circle. A good many of them were filled by elves and dwarves, but four still stood empty, including the one immediately to Elrond's right. Boromir stood in front of Elrond's chair and bowed low.  
  
"_Mae govannen_, Master Elrond."  
  
"Well met indeed, Boromir of Gondor," Elrond said, smiling cordially. "You are duly refreshed, I hope?"  
  
"Very much so," Boromir replied, "though your maidens and I have differing ideas on what constitutes suitable dress for a high council."  
  
Elrond smiled. "I imagine so, for they are elf-kind and you are a man. Differences are likely to arise. I hope that is the most serious misunderstanding you encounter here."  
  
Boromir nodded. "Indeed, I count myself lucky to have so accommodating a host."  
  
Elrond nodded. "Thank you, Boromir. But the council is about to begin; please, please, sit." Elrond stood up and extended a hand toward the empty seat next to the Mirkwood elves. Boromir took his seat and waited for the council to start.  
  
No sooner had Elrond sat down again than Gandalf entered the courtyard, accompanied by two of the strangest creatures Boromir had ever seen. They were short, shorter even than the Dwarves that occasionally passed through Gondor on their way to the iron quarries to the south. They had curly hair on their heads and their feet but no beards to speak of, and they wore breeches, shirts, and waistcoats as fine as Boromir's back in Minas Tirith, yet, oddly enough, no shoes. The one on Gandalf's right looked elderly, perhaps seventy years old, and he walked with the air of a gentleman, but the one to his left was much younger, hardly old enough to join the guard had he been a youth of Gondor. Everyone else, however, treated him with the greatest respect, as if he were a venerated hero of greatest renown.  
  
"Come, Frodo, sit at my right hand." Elrond was now standing again, and he beckoned to the younger one. When all had taken their seats, Elrond continued. "Welcome, strangers from distant lands. Here at my right hand is Frodo, son of Drogo, who has traveled from the Shire through greatest danger. Here also is Glóin, lord of Erebor, and Legolas of Mirkwood." Boromir looked at the dwarf and elf Elrond had indicated, noting how they stared coldly at each other with barely concealed loathing. Boromir, though, had no time to consider them further. "And here," Elrond continued, "is Boromir of Gondor, who arrived in the early hours of the morning." After a few more similar introductions, Elrond opened the council.  
  
"Welcome, foes of Mordor. I did not summon you, yet you were called; do not believe that simple chance brought you together. You will learn that the troubles you face are but your part of our common fate. So you may better understand what your people face, we will recount in brief the first fall of the Dark Lord Sauron and the loss of the One Ring. I will start this tale, though others may finish it, and many forgotten parts remain untold."  
  
Boromir sighed. This would be a long story indeed if all the long years since that ancient battle were to be retold. And the first part at least was to be told by this Elrond, an Elf in behaviour even if he was half-man, and Elves were not known for their brevity in story telling. Boromir settled himself back into his chair.  
  
"I remember that day well," Elrond began, "when Elf and Man stood together before the Black Gate --"  
  
"Pardon me, Master Elrond," Frodo interrupted, "but -- you remember? I thought Sauron fell over a thousand years ago!"  
  
Elrond nodded. "Over three thousand years ago, as men count them, before this age of the world began. Yet I was there. I was a standard-bearer for Gil-galad, and with him I rode to the Black Gate of Mordor. Of old, Sauron fiegned friendship with the Elves and gave us mighty gifts, yet in time he revealed himself." Then Elrond told how Sauron had driven the Elves from Eregion, how he had built Barad-dûr in Mordor, and of the fall of Númenor.  
  
Boromir sat up at the mention of that name. This was history he could relate to; Denethor had told it to him often enough. Sauron, cut off from his forces, was captured by the king and brought back to the island of Númenor. Yet those men had underestimated Sauron, and his advice seemed good to the king and his councilors. Sauron deceived the king, and on his advice, the Númenoreans set sail to the lands they were forbidden to approach. Boromir didn't really understand all that, where they had sailed and who had forbidden them to do so -- few men living today did -- but he knew all too well what happened next.  
  
A great tidal wave had come out of the west, and Númenor was swallowed by the sea. All of those noble men died, except for one family: Elendil and his sons Anárion and Isildur sailed to Middle-earth where they established Arnor in the North and Gondor in the South. They thought that Sauron had drowned in that flood, but one so great as he cannot be killed that simply. No, Sauron also escaped, and he returned to Barad-dûr. From there he waged war against both Elves and Men, and they formed an alliance to oppose him.  
  
"We fought there," Elrond droned on, "and for a time we were victorious, and the Orcs fled back to Mordor; but then Sauron himself rode out." He stopped, considering his words carefully, then continued. "I saw that last battle on the slopes of Orodruin. I saw Gil-galad die, and Elendil as well, his sword Narsil broken beneath him; yet Sauron was at last overthrown when Isildur cut the ring from Sauron's hand using the shards of his father's sword.  
  
"He kept it for his own. The ring should have been destroyed that day: I led Isildur to the cracks of Orodruin, where Sauron's ring was forged, but Isildur refused to cast it into the pit. It was a momento of his father's death, he said, and he carried it for many years. Then he was killed by Orcs at the Gladden Fields."  
  
"So that is what became of Isildur!" Boromir said, clearly excited. "If such a tale was ever told in Gondor, it was forgotten long ago."  
  
"The tidings came only to the North," Elrond answered. "Only three survived the Battle of the Gladden Fields, and they brought news of Isildur's death to his only surviving son, who had stayed behind in Rivendell. Much has happened since that fateful day. The northern kingdom failed long ago, its people and kings scattered, yet some of that old line still survive. Gondor, too, is not as great as it once was." _Lies_, Boromir thought to himself, but he said nothing, for the moment at least. "The line of kings was broken," Elrond continued, "and the White Tree withered. Gondor relaxed its watch on Mordor. Evil things have grown strong there for many years now.  
  
"So it has been for many lives of Men. Yet Gondor still fights on, defying Mordor as best she can." Elrond sighed. "And so my part of this tale draws to a close." Finally! Boromir thought, and he guessed fromm the looks on the faces around him that he wasn't the only one to think thus. "When Isildur died at Gladden Fields the ring slipped into the Anduin, and for a time it was forgotten by all. But no more. The One has been found. Frodo, bring forth the ring."  
  
Frodo walked to the table, then looked back at Gandalf. The wizard nodded and, reluctantly, Frodo lifted a chain from around his neck and laid it on the table for all to see, then returned to his seat. All stared at the simple gold band on the silver chain, and no one said anything at first.  
  
Boromir leaned forward in his chair, waiting for someone else to speak. At last, he whispered, almost to himself, "Isildur's Bane." Then he stood and addressed Elrond. "Give me leave, Master Elrond, to speak of Gondor, for it is from that land that I come. Gondor is under attack, true, but do not believe that her strength dwells only in the past. By our valour the West is kept free; yet valour needs strength, and hope.  
  
"Smoke rises again from Mount Doom, and our people are driven from Ithilien, our fair land east of the Anduin. Only a few months ago Osgiliath was attacked, and though we fought bravely, it fell to Mordor. Yet I spoke of hope. On the night before the battle for Osgiliath, I dreamt a strange dream." And then Boromir told about the voice calling from the West and the strange song, as he had told the captains of Gondor.   
  
"At last I begin to understand this riddle," Boromir finished. "I now see before my eyes halflings, which we in Gondor deem little more than legend. And the 'sword that was broken' is carried by a living man -- that is true enough. But what proof do the wise have that this is, in fact, Isildur's Bane?"  
  
"This is the One Ring," Aragorn said at last, "the ring that was cut from Sauron's hand."  
  
"Ah," Boromir answered, "now we come to it: I see before me a simple gold ring as might be bought in one of many shops in Minas Tirith; I trust that elves and dwarves have similar arts. But what proof do we have that this is the One Ring? Perhaps the wise have their reasons, but I do not see --"  
  
"Is your dream not proof enough, Boromir?" Gandalf asked. "If you desire further proof, we will give it to you. The history of the ring was lost for long years, but I have at last managed to discover much of it." Boromir re-settled himself into his seat, preparing himself for yet another long tale. "As Elrond said, the ring fell into the Anduin, and none could find it for many years. But it was indeed found, by two of the river-folk, long after that battle but still very long ago.  
  
"Sméagol and his cousin Déagol found the ring five hundred years ago when they were fishing in a stream that runs into the Anduin. Sméagol killed Déagol when his cousin refused to give him the ring, then returned to his family. But the ring transformed him, forcing him to spy against his kin and find their little secrets, until at last his grandmother sent him away to preserve the family peace. They gave him his other name, Gollum, because of the gurgling sound he made at the back of his throat. After his family abandoned him he wandered aimlessly for some time, finally deciding to hide away from the bright sun, under the Misty Mountains. He lived there for many centuries, on an island deep down in those caves, until at last Bilbo found him. But that is not my tale."  
  
Then Bilbo spoke for some time of how he found the ring. He had been travelling with a company of dwarves on a quest but was separated from his companions as they navigated their way through the caves under the Misty Mountains. There Bilbo put his hand on a ring in the dark and slipped it into his pocket. Yet a ring is neither a light nor a map, and he was still very lost, so he followed the passage as best he could until he came to an ancient lake. This was Gollum's lake, where he had lived for many hundreds of years, eating Orcs and whatever else he could find. When Gollum saw Bilbo standing on the shore he came over in his little boat and padded over to the hobbit. He thought of killing Bilbo right away, but he did not know anything about him so he wasn't sure how strong this stranger was. Instead, he challenged Bilbo to a riddle contest, and after several rounds Bilbo beat him when he asked, "What have I got in my pockets?"  
  
Bilbo had reached his hands into his pockets and found the ring there, having forgotten all about it, and he asked the question more to himself than as a riddle. But seeing Gollum did not know the answer, and unable to think of a better riddle, Bilbo granted him three guesses. When Gollum could not guess, Bilbo demanded that Gollum show him the way out. Gollum said he would, but that he must go back to his island first to get his 'precious'. There Gollum discovered his ring was missing and, guessing at last what Bilbo had in his pocket, raced back to the shore to kill the hobbit. Bilbo slipped the ring on by accident, and since this was a magic ring, he became invisible. Gollum raced by him toward the passage, where he hoped to stop Bilbo's escape, and Bilbo followed him through the tunnels to the way out. Bilbo sneaked past Gollum and out of the caves, where he found his companions.  
  
Then Bilbo told of all his later adventures, both with the Dwarves and after he returned to the Shire, up to his birthday party seventeen years prior. Frodo, in his turn, rose and told how Bilbo had left him the ring and of all his adventures since leaving the Shire. Then he sat back down.  
  
"That is a good tale," one of the Elves said at last, "but still not proof. How came Gollum by the ring? And what of Saruman? He is very learned in ring-lore, according to all accounts? What is his advice?"  
  
"Your questions are bound together, though you do not realize it," Gandalf replied. "Frodo has been pursued across the Shire and the Wilds by the nine Black Riders. Clearly, he carries something of great value to Sauron. Yet it is a ring. What of that? You may have heard the ancient rhyme:  
  
_Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,  
  
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,  
  
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,  
  
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne  
  
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.  
  
One Ring to rule them all. One Ring to find them,  
  
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them  
  
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._***  
  
"It is clearly one of the great rings, for it made Bilbo disappear. The whereabouts of the three are known. The bearers of the nine are the nine Black Riders; their owners still wear them. And the seven rings of the Dwarves are all lost or destroyed. So what of Frodo's ring? Could it possibly be the One?  
  
"Saruman thought otherwise and told us so at the last meeting of the wizards. I still remember what he said to me: 'At the worst, Sauron knows that we do not have the ring, and still hopes to find it. Yet his hope will cheat him. The ring is at the bottom of the Sea.'  
  
"I did not know why then, but I did not trust Saruman's advice. I wanted to find Gollum, to question him myself, and at last I did. After Bilbo escaped with the ring Gollum left his cave. He wandered all throughout that land asking anyone he came across for news of Baggins from the Shire. After many years of searching, I found him, and he told me -- though it took some convincing -- how he had found the ring and used it to hide himself in the Misty Mountains."  
  
"Then Gollum left the mountains?" one of the Dwarves asked. "What became of him?"  
  
"When I captured him at last," Gandalf answered, "and after I had asked him all that he would answer, Aragorn took him to the Mirkwood Elves. He is now in their keeping."  
  
"Alas, no!" Legolas cried. Everyone looked at him, astonished. "Now it is my turn to speak, though I wish it was not; but I must deliver the message I was sent to bear. Sméagol, who you call Gollum, has escaped."  
  
Aragorn looked up at the heavens, sighed in frustration, and rested his head on the palm of his hand. "That is evil news indeed. How did this come to happen?"  
  
"Not through lack of watchfulness," Legolas assured him. "Perhaps through over-kindness, though. You yourself told us Sméagol was not beyond hope and, if we could heal him, we were to try. But he would never get any better hidden in dark caves, so we let him out for walks, and he would often climb the trees. One evening he was in a tree, and our guards were attacked by Orcs; Sméagol escaped."  
  
"Would that you had shown such kindness to us," Glóin muttered under his breath.  
  
"That was not my doing," Legolas answered him.  
  
"Perhaps you did not turn the lock, but you were there. I remember you standing behind your father's throne in that great hall of yours when he sent us off."  
  
"Peace, Glóin," Gandalf said. "If all the past injuries of Elves and Dwarves are to be recounted, we will still be sitting here when Sauron knocks at our gates."  
  
Glóin nodded slowly but did not say anything more. At last Gandalf continued. "Now, Galdor, I will answer your other question. What of Saruman? His counsel is for the wizards to hold the ring, no doubt, to send it to Isengard for safe-keeping. But I do not put trust Saruman's counsel any longer.  
  
"At the end of June I was in the Shire, but I felt uneasy; I had been idle too long and needed news of what was happening in the world outside. So I journeyed past the southern borders and met my fellow wizard Radagast. He told me how the Black Riders were abroad, and how Saruman had offered his help if I came to Isengard. I traveled to Bree and asked the inn-keeper to send a message to Frodo, then rode on to Isengard at once.  
  
"But Saruman had changed. His robes, at first white, now shone with many colours whenever he turned, and his eyes gleamed with contempt. He asked me what I knew of the ring, and when I would not give him news of it he imprisoned me on the highest pinnacle of his tower Orthanc. I escaped at last on the back of Gwaihir, one of the great eagles, who flew me to Edoras. There I tamed Shadowfax, the lord of all horses; he bore me to Rivendell through many dangers."  
  
Gandalf looked around at the others. Boromir's jaw was agape, and Frodo looked at the wizard with a new admiration and fear in his eyes. At last he continued. "No, Saruman is no councilor for us. He wants the ring, whether to give to Sauron or to keep for his own evil purposes."  
  
"That is evil news, Gandalf," Elrond said at last. "So Saruman has fallen; yet it is not the first time such things have happened." He sighed. "If he will not help us, then we must make our own plans. Now we come to the question, what to do with the ring. Rivendell could perhaps hide it for a season, but even I cannot last against the might of both Sauron and Saruman forever -- nor would I if I could. My people are leaving Middle-earth, sailing across the sea."  
  
"Then why not take it with us?" asked the elf Glorfindel. "Surely the lady Elbereth will know what to do."  
  
"She would not accept it, nor would her lord Manwë or any of the others," Elrond replied gravely. "The One Ring is the bane of Middle-earth, not of those distant lands."  
  
"Even if she _would_ accept it," Gandalf added, "I would still not send it to her. Sauron is a Maia, and thus he will never die. Oceans change, and someday the land that is across the ocean may be near our own. I would not send the ring far away, to some day in the distant future be found by a servant of Sauron."  
  
"I do not understand all this talk of hiding and destroying," Boromir replied. "My people in Gondor have fought the enemy since long before I was born, for years uncounted; we know his strength. If there are forces greater than ourselves, then why would they not send us a powerful weapon? Could this not be it? The enemy's ring, that we could use to throw him down. With this and the strength of Gondor we could storm the very gates of Mordor, drive him far east of the Anduin for all time. Why not use it?"  
  
"The One Ring was made by Sauron," Elrond replied. "If one of us strong enough to wield it were to use it, he would succeed in overthrowing Sauron but would replace him as Dark Lord of all Middle-earth -- a more horrible fate than the one we now face. He would be a dark lord possessing a mighty Ring of Power. No, the One Ring must be destroyed."  
  
"If the ring must be destroyed, then let us destroy it!" Gimli son of Glóin cried as he raised his axe.  
  
"Peace, Gimli!" Gandalf cried. "Save your axe, for you may soon need it to hew Orcs' necks. The ring cannot be destroyed here. It was made in the very fires of Orodruin, in the heart of Mordor. Only those fires are hot enough to melt it. Your axe, strong though it may be, would not even dent it."  
  
Boromir chuckled under his breath. "Obviously this is some sort of Elvish joke that we Men are unaccustomed to! Assault Mordor? Not with an army of ten thousand could you hope to do this. It would be better to offer the ring to Sauron, for at least then you might have his gratitude."  
  
Aragorn stood up suddenly. "We have one advantage," he said. "I have fought Sauron many long years. I have fought his Black Riders, and I know their number. I understand the Dark Lord's mind. The thought that one of us, having the ring, would seek to destroy it and not use it will never occur to him. There lies our hope. I pray it will be enough."  
  
So it was decided at last: the ring must be destroyed. The council decided to send out nine of their best to accomplish this feat, representing each of the races at the council: Boromir and Aragorn for Men, Gandalf for the Wizards, Legolas for the Elves, Gimli for the Dwarves, and the four hobbits, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin. They passed through the wild lands around Rivendell and tried to climb the mountain Caradhras, but the snows defeated them and they nearly froze to death. After beating a way through the snows the wargs attacked, and at last they passed from all sight and help into the underground wasteland of Moria.  
  
~*~  
  
Notes:  
  
* FotR:"A Shadow of the Past"  
  
** FotR:"At the Sign of the Prancing Pony"  
  
*** FotR: "A Shadow of the Past" 


	15. Home Sweet Home

Chapter Fourteen: Home, Sweet Home  
  
Summer 3018; Edoras  
  
---------------------------  
  
Éomer and Mellamir stayed in Minas Tirith for three days. Mellamir had meant to stay longer, but Faramir insisted: the three dreams proved more than ever that Gondor just was not safe, and he needed, for his own peace of mind at least, to know that at least one heir to the stewardship was as safe as possible. He was leaving again soon, returning to Ithilien, and the city didn't feel nearly as much like home without her brothers there. Éomer was also ready to return. Now that he had seen the White Tower, he realized how much he loved Edoras and missed the gleam of the Golden Hall in the setting sun. And he had to agree with Faramir, Gondor was no safe haven. He didn't, of course, fear dreams like these Gondorians seemed to, and he thought what a joke this whole situation would seem to any proper Rohan youth. The Captain of Gondor running off to ask the Elves how to interpret his dream? But he had heard other dark news, of the fall of Osgiliath, and other things too; war now seemed eminent.  
  
So Mellamir and Éomer left Minas Tirith on the fourth day shortly after dawn. Mellamir's saddle bags were heavy, and Éomer asked her what she had bought so much of that she couldn't get in Edoras.  
  
"Seeds," she replied, and he laughed at that.  
  
"Seeds? We have seeds in Edoras, you know ..."  
  
"But not like this," she replied. "It's too late to plant a garden for this year, of course, but next year, perhaps. It would be nice to have some flowers like they have here in Gondor, wouldn't it?" Éomer nodded, and neither voiced the thought they were both thinking: it _would_ be nice, if Rohan still exists. Gardens would somehow seem out of place in Mordor.  
  
The journey back to Edoras was almost as uneventful as the one to Minas Tirith. Since Mellamir was not as rushed, she and Éomer took their time enjoying the return trip. They would stop for a leisurely lunch (and often a nap afterwards), and once Mellamir even convinced Éomer to walk with her a particularly scenic mile, giving the horses a rest. What an absurd sight -- a future lord of the horsemen leading his steed behind the daughter of the Steward of Gondor! While Boromir journeyed west to find Imladris and Faramir looked east toward Ithilien and Mordor, Mellamir enjoyed what she feared might be the last lazy summer of the West.  
  
Finally they saw the glimmer of the sunrise off Meduseld far away on the horizon, and after four hours of nonstop riding they reached the gates just as the city bells announced the arrival of the fifth hour. Théoden was "occupied," according to Wormtongue, but Éowyn and Théodred joined them for lunch and listened gladly to Éomer's tales of the White City. Mellamir, however, was strangely quiet. As the three of them finished their desert of yogurt, fresh whipped cream, and sliced fruit, Éowyn asked, "Mellamir, why are you so quiet? Is something wrong?"  
  
"I need to talk to your uncle," she replied. "Do you think he would see me? I had hoped we would be eating with him."  
  
"He's busy," Théodred answered, frowning. "Most of the time, it seems; he doesn't have time for lunch with us anymore. In fact, he hardly sees anyone these days. But he always liked you. I'm sure he would see you if you asked politely."  
  
Mellamir did indeed 'ask politely,' but not Théoden, and not right away. She sent a message to Meduseld after lunch requesting an audience with the king but had to wait four days before she heard anything. At last, Háma (by now promoted to Door-warden of Meduseld) delivered the message that she was expected in the Golden Hall at the third hour. She hastily bathed and braided her hair, then dressed in her most formal dress and followed Háma to the Golden Hall. He did not, however, show her immediately into the throne room. Instead, he escorted her into a waiting room where she sat for two hours. At the fifth hour of the day, one of the maids led her into a private office down a long hall. There sat Wormtongue, shuffling through a small stack of papers.  
  
"Master Gríma, please," she said. "I have pressing news for the king."  
  
He looked at her expectantly for a moment, obviously expecting her to give him the message so he could decide whether or not to deliver it. This had become the custom in Rohan of late, but Mellamir never had cause to deliver messages so she did not know that. When Mellamir made no move to say anything more, Wormtongue looked at her questioningly and asked, "Are you not going to tell me?"  
  
"I am afraid my father instructed me to give this news to the king himself." She forced a smile.  
  
Gríma inclined his head ever so slightly. "Surely you at least trust --"  
  
"It is not a question of whether I trust you," Mellamir interrupted, "but of whether I value my promise to my father."  
  
"Very well," he snapped. "If you decline to tell me, the news must be important indeed. But Théoden is very busy. You will have to be patient, my lady."  
  
"Of course." She forced another smile, curtsied, and hurried out of the room, through the palace doors, and across the way to hers and Éowyn's house, where she found Éowyn about to set lunch. (Since Théoden was so unavailable these days, Éowyn, Éomer, Théodred, and Mellamir often ate together at the house.) Mellamir noticed almost immediately that Éowyn had set only three places instead of the usual four.  
  
"Word came from Gríma this morning, not long after you left for Meduseld," Éowyn explained. "Too many reports of orc attacks. He is sending Éomer to lead a company of riders to search out these 'imaginary goblins,' as he put it."  
  
"From Worm?" Mellamir asked, the colour slightly draining from her face. "Not Théoden?"  
  
"From Wormtongue," Éowyn affirmed. "Mellamir, what's wrong?"  
  
Mellamir shook her head. "I'm just realizing how much things have changed around here."  
  
~*~  
  
Three more days passed before Háma finally came to take Mellamir back to Meduseld. He led her up the steps but would not cross the threshold himself. Mellamir walked alone into the great throne room of Meduseld, yet it was not as she remembered it. The great wooden pillars were the same, as were the many weavings of the ancient kings and heroes of Rohan's past. The great windows, high on the walls, still let in the mid-day sunlight, but the beams of light failed to penetrate the haze that now filled the hall. One fire burned low on a stand in the middle of the room, but it let off too much smoke and not enough flame, and the stands on either side of it stood cold.  
  
Mellamir walked through the haze and the smoke until at last she stood before the throne. Théoden sat there, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, his head bent down, and Wormtongue stood at his right hand. Mellamir bowed her head, then let her eyes briefly wander the hall. Perhaps a dozen shifty-looking men leaned against the walls; they were all armed with sword and bow, but Mellamir did not recognize them as members of Háma's guard.  
  
"King Théoden," Mellamir began as she curtsied low before the throne. "I have returned from Minas Tirith, and I bear news from the Steward. My brother Boromir is, as we speak, riding to Rivendell to seek the counsel of the lord of that valley, famous for his wisdom. The Dark Lord has joined with evil Men, the Easterlings and the Haradrim. Osgiliath has fallen. The Black Riders --"  
  
"Black Riders?" Wormtongue interrupted. "What are they?"  
  
"In Gondor we call them the Nazgûl, the Nine. No one knows where they came from; I believe them to be the nine kings that, according to ancient lore, accepted powerful gifts from Sauron before his fall. We do not know what happened to them, and legend has it that Sauron could postpone death indefinitely, replace it with a sort of half-life. You would not die, but you would not truly live either, and you would lose your will and obey only him. Whenever a Man sees one he cannot stand and fight; he either freezes in fright or runs."  
  
"A Gondorian, perhaps," Wormtongue replied, "but a Man of Rohan --"  
  
"My brothers," Mellamir answered, "in whom the blood of Númenor runs true -- even you, Théoden, recognise that -- Boromir froze in fright, but Faramir woke him with a kiss. They were there when these Black Riders attacked, commanding the company that held the last bridge across the Anduin, and they managed to destroy that bridge, though they lost most of their men in the effort."  
  
She glanced at Wormtongue, taking the time to choose her next words carefully. "Théoden, my lord, war is upon Gondor, and Rohan should turn its attention to its own borders. Sauron is not the only enemy. Your own neighbour Saru --"  
  
"You speak boldly, Mellamir, Lady of _Gondor_," Wormtongue interrupted. "Just now you called Théoden 'my lord,' but is he really? Do you not put more trust in your books of Gondorian 'wisdom' and in your brothers than in our king? I ask you, Mellamir, if Gondor went to war with Rohan, with whom would your fealty lie?"  
  
Mellamir stood there for a moment, breathing in and out, mastering her temper. At last she asked, "Can the king not speak for himself?"  
  
"The king is silent with astonishment that a foreign girl would dare tell him how to run his country. I speak for the king, and the king says: you favour Gondor more than Rohan, and would sacrifice Rohan to save your beloved city. You think that the great protect the great, so that if Rohan attacks Saruman, Sauron will come to his aid and spare Gondor for an hour, perhaps, until your brother returns with that Elf's so-called wisdom. But I say Saruman is our friend and ally, and ever has been --"  
  
But Théoden hushed Wormtongue and spoke for himself. "Mellamir, Gríma speaks the truth, though he could do so less offensively. As we speak, Éomer is searching for proof of what you warn, of Orc attacks from Isengard. If he returns with evidence, then I will consider war. Not before. And not for Gondor."  
  
"For what, then?" Mellamir asked. "For death and glory?"  
  
"For Rohan."  
  
Wormtongue nodded to two of the men leaning against the wall, and they stepped forward to escort Mellamir out. She, however, had had enough. She begged the king's leave, curtsied, pushed the man's hand off her shoulder, and left Meduseld as quickly as she could.  
  
~*~  
  
Life was as quiet as it ever was those days for about the next month. Éowyn was worried about her brother on the frontier and, while Mellamir knew he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, she found that she missed his company -- which came as a surprise, since she spent much more time with Éowyn than with he or Théodred. Then one August morning, she had to give up their lazy routine for more pressing concerns.  
  
Outside it was a miserable Tuesday morning. Farmers sat by the fires of the local inns discussing how much they needed the rain and how glad they were not to have to be out in the muck. Prairie dogs climbed out of their holes as their underground homes flooded and now sat under overhanging grasses staring at each other, listening to the pounding rain. Suddenly they heard another sound, a giant, powerful swoosh, and saw the fast-approaching shadow. They scurried off to find safer shelter just as the mammoth bird let its burden fall to the ground.  
  
"Gwaihir, my friend, thank you." The burden rolled over and closed his eyes as the mud seeped into his cloak and the dirty rainwater into his tangled grey beard. When at last his eyes refocused, they settled on the woman walking toward him. She had dark auburn hair set in a loose braid pinned out of her way on the top of her head and wore a purple wool jumper over a cream linen top and fur-trimmed boots. In this weather she also wore a dark grey woolen cloak and, her fur-trimmed hood framing her well-tanned face. She knelt beside the old man and studied his haggard face.  
  
"Gandalf. You look terrible."  
  
"Mellamir."  
  
"Come on," she said, helping him up. "Let's get you cleaned up."  
  
~*~  
  
An hour later, the wizard was sitting in an armchair in Mellamir and Éowyn's parlour, dressed in silk pyjamas borrowed from Théodred. Éowyn had brewed them some tea and produced apple ginger bread and honey left over from breakfast. Mellamir and Gandalf sat and drank, while Éowyn washed his clothes and Théodred started a stew. "Now," Mellamir said, "tell me what happened."  
  
"No time," he said between sips. "I must see the king immediately."  
  
"Good luck with that one," Théodred snorted from the other room. "Wormtongue may let you see him, but immediately? That's an entirely separate issue."  
  
"I do not remember any Wormtongue -- surely not that slimy-haired creature who tied the king's right shoe?"  
  
"The very same," Théodred replied. "Mellamir, you were not here, but years ago Father would reward loyal nobles by allowing them to help him dress in the morning."  
  
"A warrior," Gandalf replied, "does not need two lords to hold out his waistcoat while he slips it on."  
  
"No, but a king does, or so Uncle thought," said Éowyn as she came in. Having left the clothes to soak, she pulled in a chair from the kitchen table and sat down to hear Gandalf's tale, chuckling. "Though now Théoden doesn't have twenty nobles in his whole court; Wormtongue dresses the king on his own. The rest have returned to their own villages to protect them from what Worm keeps saying --"  
  
"Worm?" Gandalf asked.  
  
"That is what we call him," Mellamir replied, "though not to his face, of course."  
  
"Snake would be more fitting," Gandalf answered with a grim smile. "Go on."  
  
"He says the towns being attacked are on the wrong border," Éowyn continued, "that Orcs would have to cross the whole country to attack those western towns."  
  
"He's wrong. Or lying." Gandalf looked out the window at the falling rain. "Fitting weather for news from Stormcrow. Shut your doors and pull your curtains. Théoden should hear what I have to say first from me, not from his baker who heard it on the street. It would be better if he heard it before even you but if the situation in Meduseld is as bad as you say, I may not have the chance to return later. And you at least need to know.  
  
"I am a wizard. You know that, Mellamir, but you, Éowyn and Théodred, may not. I, like the rest of my kind, was sent to help keep this Middle-earth safe from destroying itself. Yet I am not the only one." He sighed and looked at the fire longingly. "Mellamir, I do not suppose -- do you still have your pipe?"  
  
Mellamir opened a drawer in the chest next to her. "I wondered when you would ask," she said with a smile as she readied two pipes and handed one to Gandalf. Éowyn went around locking doors and closing curtains while Mellamir and Gandalf sat and smoked. A moment later Théodred came in, coughing. He opened a window and pulled back the curtains. "Either the smoke goes out or I do, I'm afraid," he explained; "I can't stand the smell of the stuff. No one is out today, they won't hear you."  
  
"Very well," Gandalf acquiesced. "It is ancient history, but some of it bears repeating. You all know of Sauron, of course. Mellamir, your brothers will soon be fighting his orcs, and Théoden fears him as well. He made many rings. Nine he gave to kings of men, and seven to the dwarves. The Elves also made rings. Elrond has one, the lord of Rivendell. Galadriel, queen of Lothlórien, has another of these rings. The third was given by the Elf Círdan to me long ago. But Sauron kept the greatest ring for himself. That ring has been found. Sauron knows this. And Saruman, because he has studied all about the rings, he also knows this, and what is at stake."  
  
"But what _is_ at stake?" Éowyn asked. "If it is just a ring ..."  
  
"Your life is at stake," Gandalf answered. "Your peoples' freedom, and the freedom of all the nations of the West, is at stake. As long as the ring survives, Sauron survives. If he wins it back, he will be more powerful than ever. Rohan would not last an hour. The ring has been found, and we cannot hide it forever."  
  
"Then what," Théodred asked, "are we waiting for? Destroy it, now."  
  
"That is exactly what I hope to do," Gandalf replied. "But it can only be destroyed in the fires of Orodruin, the very fires that forged it, deep in Mordor. And that is why I came here, to warn your father and to beg of him a horse. I must reach the Shire, where the hobbit --"  
  
"Hobbit?" Éowyn interrupted.  
  
"Oh, I know that," Mellamir answered. "You remember the old kings, Éowyn, that we talked about? According to old legends, many of that line went away to the north, to Eriador. Gandalf told me once of a race of short people who live in a valley and are protected by those men. Most of them look like half-grown boys."  
  
"Oh, you mean holbytla," Éowyn answered.  
  
"Indeed," Gandalf said, then added quickly, "Well spoken, Mellamir," after seeing the put-out look on her face that someone else knew the tale. He continued, "A halfling found this ring centuries before. Now it has passed to Frodo Baggins, another halfling. Sauron knows that the ring has been found, and he has sent those nine kings to find it. Now Saruman, he has not been idle. He is breeding an army, but not of orcs. Orcs are weak -- they hate the sun and can't march in it for any length of time. But these Uruk-hai, as Saruman calls them, they are a cross between Orcs and goblin men, and are stronger and faster than Orcs and can move in daylight. They are the ones attacking the western villages, they and the orcs from the Misty Mountains Saruman used to breed them; orcs do not need to cross Rohan from Mordor any more."  
  
"Cheers, to the strength of Men," Mellamir said bitterly, raising her mug of tea in a mock toast.  
  
"Just now Saruman is still loyal to Sauron," Gandalf continued, "and he will command his Uruk-hai to do whatever Sauron orders. Just now. But Saruman is proud, and he will someday try to capture the ring himself and challenge Sauron."  
  
~*~  
  
Wormtongue kept Gandalf waiting a full week before he called the wizard in to see Théoden. Gandalf never told Mellamir what happened at that meeting, but Mellamir could guess well enough. Gandalf told of all he had seen, and Wormtongue called him a warmongering old fool and sent him on his way for lack of proof. Whatever had happened, Théoden was not convinced by Gandalf's story. He refused to risk open war with what he still believed to be Rohan's greatest ally. He did, however, agree to lend Gandalf a horse, any horse he wanted, so the fool could go look for help elsewhere.  
  
Gandalf went to the fields outside Edoras and chose a wonderful horse: Shadowfax. In the morning sun his coat shone a rich grey, deeper than the coal and more precious to the Rohirrim than mithril; by night he seemed black, more awe-inspiring than the very heights of Orthanc. He was one of the Mearas, a noble breed of horses the Rohirrim valued above all else, and Shadowfax was greater than any they had seen since the days of Éorl, the first king of Rohan. Shadowfax was royalty, from a prouder, less fallen age than the current one. And Gandalf, in his insolence, chose that horse out of all the horses in Rohan.  
  
He spent several days breaking him, stopping only to eat dinner with Éowyn, Théodred, and Mellamir. One day, when he didn't come to dinner, Mellamir knew he had gone to find this Shire he worked so hard to protect. Gandalf the Grey was never seen again in Edoras. 


	16. The Deep Breath Before the Plunge

Chapter Fifteen: The Deep Breath Before the Plunge  
  
Sept. 3018-Feb. 3019; Edoras  
  
----------------------------------------  
  
Days passed; weeks turned into months; slowly but surely the autumn harvest approached; and then the harvest was finished, but still life went on. Edoras, after welcoming Mellamir and Éomer back from Minas Tirith and gladly bidding Gandalf good-bye, calmly went about the normal business of living, scarcely noticing that far to the south war was coming. With Gandalf gone to the north and Éomer out in the wildlands somewhere hunting orcs, both Mellamir and Éowyn had someone to worry about and would have liked a bit of excitement. Life was a bit too normal for them. Slowly, however, some people began noticing that not all was as quiet as it seemed. For one, Lagoric, who ran the royal stables.  
  
"Good morning, ladies," he said one chilly October morning when they came to saddle their horses for a ride. "I wondered if I might have a word, if you have a moment."  
  
"Of course," Éowyn replied. "How can we help you?"  
  
"Well, it's me sister," he said, looking down at the hay-covered stable floor. "She lives in Algoras and, well, she hasn't written me for months. She normally writes at least every two weeks -- we were very close, you know, but her husband, he missed his home out there in the Westfold, and she went with him, like proper, don't you think?"  
  
"Yes, that's proper, I suppose," Éowyn answered. "When did you last hear from her?"  
  
"Let me see," he thought out loud, "it was right around the time Mistress Mellamir and Master Éomer left for Minas Tirith. They left here -- what, near the end of June, and that letter came a week after, I think. Give or take."  
  
"And this is the end of October," Éowyn said, almost to herself. "That's three months. She should have written six times." She looked at Lagoric. "You two didn't have a fight or anything? She didn't give you any reason why she would have stopped writing?"  
  
"No," he said, deep in thought, "nothing that I can think of, anyway. I didn't say anything I think she would get mad at. But you never can tell with women-folk, you beg my pardon, ladies. And she might have gotten hurt or something, I suppose, but still ... " He trailed off.  
  
"It isn't just you," Éowyn said at last. "Something's not right. Will you excuse us, Lagoric? I will take this matter up with the king, I promise, but first I need to talk with Mellamir." She took the reins of her horse. "Are you ready, Mellamir? I need some air."  
  
The two mounted their horses and rode out at a fast trot around the city, over the fields for miles, until they at last rode up a tall hill. Finally Éowyn stopped and dismounted. She started to run but instead sank down to her knees and screamed.  
  
"I should have known," she said miserably, "I should have seen ... Mellamir, he's out there, Éomer, in it, whatever it is. But something's definitely wrong; Gandalf was right. Snake is mistaken, or -- more likely -- he's lying."  
  
At last Éowyn fell silent. Mellamir followed her eyes across the field to the man riding toward them, holding a sleeping girl.  
  
"Excuse me, ladies," he said, "but do you live in Edoras?"  
  
"Yes," Mellamir answered, not trusting Éowyn to speak just yet. "I am from Gondor and am the king's guest. This is the king's niece, the lady Éowyn. Who asks?"  
  
"My name is Elledurm," the man replied, dismounting. "I have a farm some ten miles south of here. This little girl was brought to me by another farmer, and he asked me to carry her to Edoras. That I have done, and I have told you all I know. You will excuse me, I hope, if I do not tarry." And with that he rode off.  
  
Mellamir stood there holding the sleeping girl in her arms. "Look at her, Éowyn. She hasn't had a decent meal in a week. And she's so filthy. Let's get her back to the house."  
  
They mounted their horses and rode slowly back to Edoras, the girl sleeping in front of Mellamir. She woke briefly when they dismounted but then fell back asleep until they walked into the house. Mellamir gave her a bath using her best bubble bath and strawberry soap while Éowyn set the table and ran over to Meduseld. She had prepared a meaty soup and grain bread for herself and Mellamir, but this child needed more than that, so she and one of the kitchen staff came back with roast turkey and potatoes, a heartening ale and a pitcher of fresh milk, and the kind of baked treats little girls love.  
  
Finally Mellamir, Éowyn, and the girl sat down to dinner. "I can't believe how nice your towels are," the child said. "So thick!"  
  
"What is your name?" Éowyn asked.  
  
"Tova," she answered. "I'm from Algoras."  
  
Mellamir and Éowyn looked at each other with alarm in their eyes. "And you've come all this way by yourself?" Éowyn asked.  
  
"Oh no. The men helped me."  
  
"But ... how did you leave Algoras? No one has heard from that part of Rohan for at least a month."  
  
A tear crept down her face as she thought about the question. "It was a few weeks ago, back before the harvest; I suppose they must have harvested by now." She paused. "Papa had gone off to hunt with the old moon, five nights earlier. Mama and me, we had gone down to the well to get water for breakfast that next morning. When we came back, we saw a spear in the yard. I was scared, but Mama said we had to go home because that's where Papa would look for us. When we came closer I saw that Papa's hair was on the pole. I shrieked, and some black men came out from behind the trees. They ran toward Mama. Two of them grabbed her and started to take her off, and a third reached for me, but I ducked and ran inside the house. Mama, she yelled out, 'Run, Tova!' and so I ran ... I grabbed my extra cloak and tied it up with some bread and a flask of water, and ran out the back door. The black men, they ran around -- only they weren't like normal men, all covered in hair, and their faces were lumpy -- but my sister, Saralina, she ran out and stopped them. They just grabbed her, and two of them held her back while another started to run after me, but as soon as I reached the field they couldn't see me since we hadn't started the harvest then, and the wheat was tall and thick. And one of them grunted, and they all left, carrying away me mum and Saralina. But Mama had told me to run, so I did, all through the night until I couldn't run any more. Finally I reached another farmer -- miles away. He asked me where I was going, and I remembered that Mama said she had a brother in Edoras, so I thought I'd go there. That farmer took me for a while, and he asked his brother to take me some more, and bit by bit, until here I am."  
  
All through this the girl had been eating hungrily. Not having had a decent meal in some time, she was on her second plate; Mellamir had eaten a bowl of soup, but Éowyn had hardly taken a bite. Now the old fire lit in her eyes again. She turned to Mellamir and said, "Watch the child. I have business with Snake."  
  
Éowyn marched straight to Meduseld, and Wormtongue did not dare refuse her with that look in her eyes. She told Wormtongue and Théoden about Tova and her story, and Théoden saw that she was not fooled, nor was she to be patronized.  
  
"My niece," Théoden said, "this is grave news indeed, but why are you so worried?"  
  
"Why am I worried?" she asked incredulously. "My brother is out there, with a new enemy he does not know how to fight. If he even still draws breath. Your nephew. How can you not be worried?"  
  
"But what would you have me do?" the king asked.  
  
"My lord --" Gríma tried to say, but Éowyn cut him off.  
  
"Send out riders," she answered her uncle. "Find my brother and bring him back safely, or at least his bones."  
  
"But my lord, we have no proof --"  
  
"You have an eye-witness," Éowyn answered him, barely controlling her disbelief and rage. "What more proof do you need?"  
  
"Éowyn speaks the truth, Wormtongue," Théoden said at last.  
  
Wormtongue looked at Éowyn with daggers in his eyes. "As you wish, my lord," he said at last, "but it will take an army to find him."  
  
"Then send out an army," Éowyn responded. "Send out Théodred and all the riders that can be found. They ride at the tenth hour."  
  
~*~  
  
Four hours later Théodred and half the city guard were standing outside the gates of Edoras, fully outfitted with horses, swords, spears, shields, armour, and full provision for the journey. Wormtongue, Éowyn, and Mellamir were also there to see the company off. When Théoden announced he wanted to say a few words at the send-off Wormtongue suggested a heartening brandy to guard the king's cough against the autumn chill. Unfortunately the brandy had the opposite effect, worsening the cough, and the royal healers ordered him not to go outside for at least a fortnight. So Éowyn, as the only other member of the House of Éorl not actually leaving, gave the commission.  
  
"Men of Rohan!" Éowyn cried over the howling wind. "This morning Mellamir and I received distressing news. Orcs no longer attack only from the east, but from the west as well. And these orcs are more like men than any you have ever seen. You are not riding forth to war, but to rescue. My brother and the many valiant men he commands are risking their lives so Théoden your king can understand these new enemies. Now is the hour for them to return home.  
  
"Yet war may well wait for you. Defend what is yours but do not attack unless that is the only way to rescue the lord Éomer and his men. Returning them safely will win you more honour than slaying a thousand Orcs, for the information they carry will help us kill tens of thousands."  
  
Théodred stepped forward. "Well spoken, cousin," he said. "For the glory of Rohan, for the sake of Bema, and for our own honour, we will return you your brother. Men of Rohan, mount!" Five hundred men in glistening mail pulled themselves up onto their horses and turned to face the setting sun. At last Théodred gave the command: "Forth, Éorlingas!" And with that, five hundred horses bearing five hundred warriors, their five hundred spears blazing in the late afternoon sun, rode off into the west.  
  
Those were lean weeks, and life would only get worse before it got better -- much worse. The western farms had grown most of Rohan's grain and had always sent a tenth of their crop as a tax to feed the people of Edoras. With little wheat for bread and less barley for ale, the days of full stomachs were soon forgotten. Éowyn, set on keeping Wormtongue out of her uncle's chambers, moved back to Meduseld and nursed her uncle, leaving Mellamir to her own tasks.  
  
But Mellamir was far from idle; that would have driven her insane. Théodred stopped at every village between Edoras and Algoras, taking with him all the men who could ride immediately and asking the chiefs to send any others strong enough to hold a sword back to Edoras, keeping a bare minimum to defend their women and children. Within a week boys and their grandfathers began arriving at Edoras, and beds and bread had to be found.  
  
So Mellamir was up before the sun once again, setting up tents outside Edoras. She had the women gather whatever vegetables could be found wild and make stews, and the old men who could not fight or even stand she set to whittling bowls, spoons, and cups out of wood as they sat by their fires. Théodred had asked for all those strong enough to wield a sword, not necessarily those who had any practice at it, and Mellamir's own military training, both with Faramir and Boromir back in Minas Tirith and with Éowyn in Edoras, became worth something for the first time in her life. She halved the guards who patrolled the city and set the others to training the new recruits.  
  
This went on for months until at last the spring sun broke through and winter began to fade away. The men wanted to return home to plant, but Mellamir would not let them: she knew Théodred and Éomer needed to return home to a unified and trained army, not soldier-farmers scattered across the country. Instead, she and several other of the fastest riders in the city went out, riding from town to town, announcing that the men would be staying in Edoras and urging the women to plant as much crops as they could.  
  
All winter long Éowyn had tended her uncle. The first thing she did was change his diet from the rich foods he had become accustomed to to simple vegetables, stews, and water. "Hearty food makes for hearty health," she said to him once, "and even the king must tighten his belt in times such as these." The first night, when Wormtongue tried to bring in the king's usual goblet of wine, Éowyn seized it and poured it out on the floor. This was an Éowyn Wormtongue had seldom seen: beautiful, ice cold, and determined, no longer afraid to challenge him. _If I could break her she might make a fitting prize_, he thought to himself, _and indeed prove useful._  
  
He let her have her way and hung back. With the king ill with cough, cold, or flu, one after another throughout the winter, the task of governing fell to the king's trusted advisor. Mellamir saw to the troops in the field but Wormtongue controlled the storehouses, and if any of the people had a complaint they came to him for justice.  
  
At night Wormtongue brought the simple dinner Éowyn ordered, for three: he, Éowyn, and Théoden ate together. One night after dinner, as Wormtongue helped her lead Théoden to his bed, their hands accidentally brushed and she didn't shudder like she usually did when they touched. There's hope, he thought to himself. As always, he bowed and left her to her nightly watch.  
  
So it was that Mellamir's mind was on other things, the growing number of mouths and dwindling supply of bread, when she heard the horn call. Not a full-strength call but an echo of one sounding far away, yet still strong enough for her to recognize: the Horn of Gondor, followed quickly by a full-strength blast from the silver horn of Rohan. She looked out from the city wall where she stood with Háma and saw Éomer riding up with all his men, holding the bloodied and half-dead Théodred in his arms. 


	17. Death in the Golden Hall

Lady of Gondor Ch 16 - Death in the Golden Hall  
  
(Warning: portrays (canon) character death.)  
  
26 Feb - 01 March, 3018; Edoras  
  
--------------------------------------------------------------  
  
"Open the gates! Open the gates!" Mellamir cried as Éomer quickly approached the threshold. "Háma, take the men to the tents. Find them a bed, and give them a good meal and ale, as much as we can spare. I'll come down as soon as I can."   
  
Háma ran out the side door and directed the men to the field, but Éomer rode gently through the opening gates. Mellamir ran down the stairs toward them. "What happened, Éomer?" she asked.   
  
"Take him," Éomer said, lowering Théodred into Mellamir's strong arms. He dismounted himself. "You, boy," he called to a messenger-boy not far away. "Take Firefoot to the stables, and tell them to rub him down good; he's had a hard ride." He turned to Mellamir, taking Théodred back. "Where's Éowyn?"   
  
"She's nursing your uncle," Mellamir replied, her look of concern growing to panic as Éomer put off answering her questions.   
  
"Théoden? What's wrong with him?"   
  
"He's been sick all winter," Mellamir replied. "Nothing life-threatening."   
  
"Get her, and meet me at the healer's house," Éomer said, "as soon as you can."   
  
Éomer walked off to the healer's house, slowly so as not to jostle Théodred, while Mellamir ran to Meduseld. Ten minutes later she and Éowyn came running out again, and within minutes they stood outside the healers' house.   
  
"Éomer, what's wrong?" Éowyn asked, running up to her brother.   
  
He led them inside. "We were ambushed by orcsy men."   
  
"Uruks," said Mellamir. "Go on."   
  
"My men and I had been riding for months trying to find how the orcs -- uruks as you call them -- were getting past all our guards to the western towns, or why for that matter. We'd been looking for any hidden forts, trails -- anything that might give us a clue how they'd gotten past our scouts for months now. We were exploring the area around Isen when behind us we heard a deafening roar. Horses' hooves, it was Théodred and all his men. There were twelve companies of horsemen, and some archers among them. But then on the other side of the ford, another great force appeared. Uruks, and wild men on foot with axes, and goblins riding wargs. We held them off as long as we could, and did a right good job, I daresay. But they outnumbered us badly and finally we were overrun. We were circled, and Théodred was struck down." Éowyn covered her mouth and Mellamir looked over at Éomer, but he seemed to not notice their reactions and continued on.   
  
"But then the weirdest thing happened. As soon as they saw Théodred was wounded they drew back and ran away. And he was wounded badly. Look." He pulled back the sheet covering his cousin to reveal where one of the axe-men had struck his shoulder. Éomer had wrapped it in cloth torn from his own tunic, and the dirt-caked cloth was soaked through with blood. Eowyn now removed the cloth and replaced it with a clean white bandage.   
  
"He'll have to lose the arm, but he'll live," she said weakly.   
  
"Aye, but you haven't seen the worst of it. Look." And Éomer gently lifted up Théodred's own tunic to reveal where he had been pierced by seven arrows. Five had caught him in the gut and, while painful, weren't life-threatening. But two had hit under his armpit and had left a black welt that was spreading and had swollen so that Théodred's arm wouldn't lay flat by his side.   
  
"Orc-poison," Éomer explained. "Many have already died from it, on the ride back."   
  
Éowyn, Éomer, and Mellamir set off immediately for Meduseld, leaving Théodred in the hands of the healer. They were almost up the steps when Háma came running up. "Lady Mellamir," he said, huffing for breath. "I hoped I would catch you. The men, they are too many. We have no more bread on hand."   
  
She thought for a moment, then said, almost to herself, "Let them eat cake."   
  
"My lady?" Háma asked.   
  
"Whatever it takes. There's a fresh fruit cake in my own cupboard; you can start there. Go to all the townspeople. Ask them for any food they can spare. Do the best you can; I'll talk to Wormtongue, though I doubt he'll be over-generous." Then Mellamir, Éomer, and Éowyn all took off their rings and gave them to Háma so the townspeople would know the collection was on their orders.   
  
"Yes, my lady," Háma said, and he ran off to get men to help him collect the food.   
  
Mellamir, Éomer, and Éowyn entered Meduseld. Éomer looked into the throne room and saw that it was empty. "Théoden will be in bed," Éowyn replied to his unasked question; "he's not feeling well. Let's go." They walked down one hall and up another until at last they were outside the king's private quarters. Éowyn knocked, and Wormtongue came out.   
  
"The king is sleeping --"   
  
"Then wake him up," Éomer demanded, "or he may sleep through his son's death."   
  
"His son's . . .?"   
  
"Yes, his son's death. Théodred was waylaid by orcs at the Fords of Isen, Master Wormtongue," Mellamir said with a scowl. A thought popped into her head: _Which you undoubtedly already know. *Did* he know?_ It would not surprise her. "He lays with a deadly wound in the healers' house as we speak," she continued. "If you let the king sleep, Théodred may not be the only one buried today."   
  
"As you insist," Gríma said at last. The four walked into the king's parlour. "Wait here," Wormtongue said, and he went into the king's bedroom. A moment passed, then five and then fifteen, before Wormtongue finally returned with Théoden. The king was wrapped in his velvet dressing robe, yawning. "What's wrong? Why did you wake me?" He looked around at his visitors. "Éomer? Is that you?"   
  
"Yes, my lord," Éomer said. "It's your son, Théodred. He has been injured . . . by orcsy men. They came out of the west and bore the white hand of Saruman."   
  
"Lies!" Wormtongue hissed. "Saruman has always --"   
  
But Éomer did not let Wormtongue finish. "I fear Théodred has a fatal wound. He's in the healer's house now, but I doubt the healer will be able to do much."   
  
The king looked at Éomer, then back to Wormtongue. "He is . . . ill. He may die. But the healers . . . they say I cannot leave this hall. Éowyn, you will look after him . . ."   
  
"My lord, my uncle!" she cried. "Will you not come to him" He needs _you_."   
  
The king looked again at Wormtongue. "No; I cannot. But go! Watch after him. Théodred should not die alone."   
  
Éowyn looked for a long time into her uncle's eyes, but she saw only ice and shadows of a glory long past hiding in the recesses of this once-great man. She tried to hide the tears, but one lone drop rolled down her fair cheek, and she ran from the room.   
  
"My lord, there is other news," Mellamir said at last. "Théodred and Éomer brought many men with them. We have fed as many as our allotted stores allow, but we are now out of bread. I have sent Háma to the townspeople to ask for more, but you cannot feed your armies on crumbs forever. What shall I do?"   
  
"My king," Wormtongue said, "you see what comes of this army. They eat our bread, they kill your son! Let them go on their way. Find their own bread."   
  
"Uncle!" Éomer shouted. "This is just not true. Your armies fought bravely! It was the Orcs, they were too many --"   
  
"Orcs! Not one Orc could get to the west without your knowing it. Let alone a great host."   
  
"These Orcs did not come from Mordor, but from Isengard!" Éomer answered him.   
  
"Lies and more lies!" Gríma answered. "This is foolishness, my lord, to even listen to these wild accusations."   
  
"Saruman ... ?" Théoden asked.   
  
"Has ever been our friend and ally. Why should now be different?"   
  
"Disband the army," Théoden said at last. We have no need of their foolishness."   
  
"Foolishness? Why, I would feed them myself rather than see them disband!"   
  
"This, this warmonger nephew... "   
  
"Gríma speaks well. You forget, sister's son, that I am still king and my heir yet lives. Your head grows too big. Disband the army." Éomer bowed curtly and began to leave. Wormtongue and Mellamir did similarly and followed him.   
  
Théoden returned to his bedroom and Éomer walked toward the door. Gríma placed his hand across the handle. "You say much, Éomer," Gríma hissed. "Too much. I give you your freedom. Run whichever way the wind blows. Keep your guard on the city, if you like. Take this army of yours, and feed them yourself, if you are so determined. But if you should ever again approach Edoras, you shall not cross through the city gate a free man."   
  
Wormtongue clapped his hand. The door opened and guards entered to escort Éomer to the stables.   
  
As Éomer and his riders rode out to find proof of the Isengard orcs Mellamir returned to the Healer's House. Outside stood Éowyn, her dress drenched with tears, sweat, and blood, ripping in half a flag of green field with a white stallion. "Théodred is dead."   
  
Mellamir stood stunned for a moment, then turned around and started walking back the way she'd come. Almost as an afterthought, she turned and said, "See to your cousin's body. I will go tell the king and light the fire." And she disappeared down a side street. Éowyn went back inside and began the sad work she had been fortunate enough never to have to do before. She pulled off the topsheets and threw them into the fire. Then she took off Théodred's black boots, his mud-stained socks, and his worn pants and replaced them with fine silk socks, white linen pants, and fur-lined bootlets made of the white leather that comes from a young deer. She took his sword and sheath from his old pants and tied it around his waist with a strip of fine velvet. She tried to take the tunic off but found that the dried blood had made it stick to his chest, so she cut off what she could, then pulled off the rest, taking with it a good bit of Théodred's skin. She burned the shirt, but the pants and the boots she saved for Théoden. She took a white linen strip and tied it around Théodred's chest so that his arm would lay flat. But that pushed all the air out of his chest, making him look weak, so she loosened the bandage a little, leaned down, and kissed her cousin, blowing air into him and inflating his chest a little. She stood up and turned around to get the white linen tunic out of the chest but bumped right into the man standing behind her.   
  
He put his hand behind her back and pulled them closer together, their lips touching, before she finally recognized the greasy hair and the long, bony fingers. "Arrggh!" she yelled as she pushed Gríma Wormtongue away, out through the open door, and into the mud puddle in the street outside.   
  
"My dear little princess," he said. "Am I really that much worse than a corpse? My, you look pale; all of this weeping isn't good for your complexion. What you need is a bit of color." Gríma brushed his hand across the mud, then got up, walked over to Éowyn, and slapped her squarely across the cheek. "There, that's better. Now, shall we try it again?"   
  
"Never, Snake!" she snapped.   
  
"Ah, Snake is it now?" he asked mockingly.   
  
"Go ahead, banish me. I don't care."   
  
"But don't you? Your cousin is dead, and your brother is banished. Yes, banished. And if the king should die -- these are, after all, dangerous days, accidents can be arranged, and he has been sick all winter -- then, who would be left to take his throne? With no living family? I, of course, as his chief and dearest advisor, would humbly take the crown. You, being a woman, could never be king yourself. But queen! You know that the woman's hand calms the savage heart." He approached. "Just one little kiss. Or shall we see what happens when the savage becomes the king?"   
  
Éowyn saw she didn't have any choice. She closed her eyes and stood still. Wormtongue walked over toward her and kissed her, again pulling her towards him. "Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" But the look on Éowyn's face, drained of what little colour it had had, told Wormtongue otherwise. "Fool! Useless wench! What is the house of Éorl but a thatched barn where bandits drink in the stench, and their brats roll on the floor with the dogs*?" He tore off his mud-covered cloak and threw it at her, covering her in its mud. "You'll want to clean that properly." And with that he walked out.   
  
~*~   
  
Mellamir stood far away, in the courtyard in front of Meduseld overlooking Edoras. It was three days later. She had brought out a great brass stand, and in it she had kindled a fire of hickory wood. Whenever a member of the royal house died, someone had to light the flame of memorial and watch it for a fortnight, day and night, starting as soon after the death as possible. Háma watched her tend the fire every day as he guarded the door to Meduseld, and every night, he would watch the flame for six hours while she slept. He wanted to do more, but she wouldn't let him. What was the world coming to? she thought. The king whose mind was controlled by the snake. The prince who died fighting an enemy that didn't exist. Éomer, exiled just when his country needed him most. And Éowyn, all alone to keep her nightly vigil over her cousin's body. Mellamir could see Éowyn standing by Théodred's grave and Wormtongue coming over and talking to her as the sun set. Ah, a lonely vigil would be so sweet! But the Worm wouldn't leave her alone; he harassed her through these silent hours.   
  
Suddenly a dot raced across the field. It was a horse -- Éomer! He should be here; Gríma would lock him away for sure. But Éomer didn't care. He had seen in the setting sun Éowyn's long blonde hair standing by one of the crypts and guessed that Théodred must have died. And beside her he saw a man he couldn't recognize from that distance. He assumed it was Théoden and rode forward to pay his final respects to his cousin. But then he saw who it really was. Éomer jumped off his horse and ran towards the two, but before he could even reach the Snake Wormtongue's guards had grabbed him by his shoulders and were dragging him off toward the lock-houses.   
  
~*~   
  
Note:   
  
* This quote was first spoken by Saruman in TTT, Bk III, "The Voice of Saruman." Later in RotK, Bk V, "The Houses of Healing," Gandalf suggests that Wormtongue said something similar to Éowyn. 


	18. The Four Riders

Lady of Gondor Ch 16 - The Four Riders  
  
2-4 March 3018; Edoras  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Éomer was in the lock-houses almost a week. He did not suffer much because Mellamir personally saw to his meals, and the jail itself was not completely unpleasant, but for one used to the clean air of freedom and the feel of galloping horses any sort of imprisonment was torture. Yet he had pleasant enough company as Mellamir came to see him every day. She had brought a chess board from Minas Tirith and taught him how to play.  
  
"The secret of the game," she said once, "is to realize that, just like the men under your control have different talents, a sage can do things a rider cannot."  
  
"Ah," he replied as her rook took his knight. "And keeping them all straight. That's my problem at least, there are just too many types. And you have to sacrifice when you have to, if that's the only way to win."  
  
"Just like in war."  
  
Éomer moved his pawn up a row. Mellamir took it with her knight, then Éomer took her piece with his sage. "I think," he said at last with a chuckle, "that I'm beginning to understand this game."  
  
They spent several hours each day together, talking about what had happened since Éomer left for the Westfold, playing chess, and generally passing the time. Mellamir had invited Éowyn to come but Éowyn refused: one of her patients had died, true, but she still had another, and Théoden still needed her.  
  
It was Éowyn who first saw the Four Riders approaching Edoras. She was standing in the courtyard of Meduseld, looking out at the setting sun and daydreaming, when she saw them riding across the plains. One she recognized. It was gray, and powerful, the proudest of its kind: Shadowfax! He had returned several days earlier riderless, and the whisper had spread through Edoras that Gandalf was dead. Wormtongue had been all-too-happy to tell Éowyn of his fall, and Éowyn had relayed the news to Mellamir, but Mellamir wouldn't believe it. What of a horse? Gandalf escaped on eagles' wings; what did he need a horse for? She was concerned, yes, but Gandalf had been riding into dangers for long years. Besides, she hardly had time to dwell on rumours those days.  
  
Shadowfax, though, seemed to have taken a new rider. He wore a gray cloak over white robes and had white flowing hair and a long, white beard. Yet somehow he seemed familiar. What if it _was_ Gandalf? No man had ever been able to tame Shadowfax before Gandalf, and by all accounts Shadowfax had rode off to the sound of a whistle in the air.   
  
And what's more, two horses rode beside Shadowfax. On one rode a man, and on the other an elf and a dwarf. If it were just a man Éowyn wouldn't have thought any more of it, but the elf and the dwarf, that caught her attention. Éomer had told her of his meeting with an elf, a man, and a dwarf, and how he had lent them horses. These were clearly horses of Rohan. Could it be the three Éomer had seen? Éowyn ran to tell Mellamir of this strange news.  
  
But Éowyn wasn't the only one to recognize Shadowfax. Wormtongue looked out from the window in Théoden's suite high above, noticing the four. "My lord," he said to Théoden. "Gandalf Stormcrow approaches. Come now, we must get you dressed and seated at your throne to extend a fitting welcome to our guest. He must know that his ill news is not welcome here." Théoden sat up and allowed Wormtongue to dress him.  
  
~*~  
  
The four riders rode across the plains and up the hill toward Edoras. They passed the mounds, seven to their left and nine to their right, where Théodred and so many of his fathers now lay forever under cold earth. As they approached the gates of Edoras they stopped in front of the guards blocking their way.  
  
"Stay, stranger!" the first said in the tongue of the Rohirrim.  
  
Gandalf answered him, "Well I know your tongue, but few strangers do. Why do you speak such if you want to be understood. Why not use the Common Speech of the West, as was your custom when last I traveled through Rohan?"  
  
"Rohan has no welcome for the stranger in these days of love. Our king Théoden wishes that we not admit anyone to the city, save his own people and those from Gondor who bring us hope in the coming attack. Yet you ride horses like our own, and only those in service to Théoden are permitted to ride them. Where did you get them?"  
  
"They were lent to us three days ago," Aragorn answered, "by the marshal Éomer. We now return them, as we promised. But has Éomer not brought word of our coming?"  
  
"None that has reached guards such as us, yet we do not hear everything that passes at the Golden Hall. Give me your names, and I will ask the king if he will hear you."   
  
"I am Gandalf, as you well know," Gandalf said. "With me ride lords of far-off lands, three of the greatest Théoden has ever kept waiting at his gate. Aragorn, a lord of men far to the North; Legolas, son of Thranduil, king of Mirkwood; and Gimli, son of Glóin, dwarf-lord of the Lonely Mountain. But my name should be enough. Go, then!" So the guard left and a few minutes returned. The guards stood aside, and the four riders left their horses with the guards and made their way slowly up the winding streets toward the Golden Hall.  
  
There was, of course, Gandalf, now Gandalf the White. He had fought a balrog in the mines of Moria and was thought to have died, but he had returned. With him was Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir to the throne of Gondor, though this was not common knowledge yet. And also Legolas the elf and his friend Gimli the dwarf. At last the guard returned and opened the city gates, allowing them to pass. The four riders walked forward, yet they were hardly unnoticed. Women and children stopped their work to stare at them.   
  
As they approached the great steps of Meduseld the guards held the hilts of their swords out in a sign of peace. One stepped forward and bowed formally. "_Haletan, gyst_*," he said in the native language of Rohan, then continued in the common tongue: "I am Háma, door-warden of Meduseld. Théoden --" But Háma stopped short, seeing Mellamir running up. He frowned; most unlady-like. But he did not say anything and let her approach.  
  
"Gandalf!" she called as she climbed the stairs. "Is that you? Where have you been? We heard that you had died!"  
  
"Wherever I have been," he answered, "I am back. Melllamir, excuse me; my business is urgent. I am glad to see you yet live, though."  
  
"I know your business," she answered; "it is with Théoden. But can a lady of Gondor not watch?"  
  
"Gondor?" asked Aragorn. "Who are you?"  
  
Gandalf hastily answered him, "Strider, meet Mellamir, daughter of Denethor, steward of Gondor. Sister of Boromir."  
  
A stranger who did not know the ranger of the North would think those words meant nothing to him, but his friends saw how deeply affected he was. Here was a daughter of Denethor, and thus a Númenorean, proud and true. But she was also sister of Boromir, and that meant he would have to tell her the truth, even though he knew it would hurt.  
  
"Mellamir, I -- " he began, but Gandalf interrupted.  
  
"Not now, Aragorn." He nodded toward Háma.  
  
"Gentlemen, and my lady, the king awaits you. Yet first you must leave all your weapons at the door. Here they will be kept until your return." They reluctantly disarmed: seven short-knives, one sword, five axes of various sizes, two bows, and forty-seven arrows. The guards stared in amazement that four travelers should carry so many weapons but said nothing.  
  
Háma nodded toward Aragorn. "And your sword, sir."  
  
Aragorn unsheathed his blade and lay it across the palm of his hands, holding it out for the guards to inspect. Some of them whispered amongst themselves; others tried not to let their amazement show, with varying degrees of success.  
  
"You recognize it, then," Aragorn said. "This is Andúril, which of old was called Narsil, Isildur's blade. It was reforged of late by the Elven-smiths at Rivendell, and I carry it now to war. Any lesser blade I would leave at any master's door, whether he be a shepherd or a king."  
  
"Yet those are my orders," Háma answered, "and it is not clear to me that the wishes of Aragorn of the North should supercede those of Théoden King of the Mark, even if he carries the blade of kings. For even if Aragorn sat on Isildur's throne, still Rohan is its own country and is not subject to Gondor's decrees." Háma pointed his sword at Aragorn.  
  
"Come now, Háma," Gandalf said, "put your sword away." Then he turned to Aragorn. "Needless are the demands of Théoden, yet a king may demand as he will. We do not have time for this idle banter."  
  
"Very well," Aragorn said at last. "He replaced Andúril to his sheath, then loosened the sheath from his girdle. He stepped toward the wall of Meduseld, holding out his hand in a sign of peace, and rested his blade against the wall of the Golden Hall. "But the next man who touches Isildur's blade save myself shall die on it."  
  
The look in the guards' eyes told Aragorn that, even if he had not threatened them, none of these men would dare touch so noble a blade. Háma, though, still did not move aside to let them enter. "And your staff," he said, nodding at Gandalf.  
  
"Come now!" Gandalf exclaimed. "Foolishness is one thing, but courtesy is quite another. May an old man not have a stick to lean on?"  
  
Háma frowned. "A staff in the hands of a wizard may be more than a prop for old age." But then he sighed. "Yet, in times such as these, a man must trust to friendship as much as wisdom. I know you, Gandalf, to be a friend, regardless of what others may say. Keep your staff. Now go; the king awaits." He stepped aside and opened the door, allowing the five to enter the hall. It clicked ominously behind them.  
  
~*~  
  
The throne room was dark, lit only by a small fire on the hearth in the middle of the hall; dark clouds blocked out the sun outside. Théoden sat, wrapped in his great cloak, the throne on his head, Wormtongue sitting at his right hand on a low stool. "My king," he said, "the four approach: Legolas the elf, Gimli the dwarf, Aragorn of the Dúnedain, and . . . ah, Gandalf, constant bringer of ill tidings!"  
  
Mellamir stood near the back wall. She had intended to stand before the king beside Gandalf, but now that she was actually in Meduseld again, she doubted, after her last encounters with Wormtongue, that her presence would help Gandalf's case. Gandalf and his companions walked slowly up the hall until at last they stood before the great throne. "Hail, Théoden son of Thengel!" Gandalf announced. "I return at last. We have passed through many dangers, through cave and wood and plain, across rivers and through hordes of orcs, to bring you aid. Will you not hear us?"  
  
"What do you have to say that you did not say on our last parting, Gandalf Stormcrow?" Théoden asked. "Is Saruman still our enemy, or has he since become our friend? Or perhaps you wish to unsay some things?"  
  
The king took his black staff from beside the throne and pulled himself up. Stooped though he was, he seemed tall to those there, and they thought that as a young man he must have been tall indeed. "I admit you to my halls," Théoden continued. "Perhaps you look for welcome? Do not expect it here. For when have you ever given us cause to welcome you?" Slowly he sank back down into the throne.  
  
"The king speaks wisely," said Wormtongue. "Gandalf comes on the wingtips of doom, and all fear his presence. And so it seems this time. For it is not five days since my lord Théodred fell at the fords of Isen, and news comes from Gondor that the Dark Lord rises again. _Láthspell_ I name you, 'Ill-news.' Why should we welcome you, Gandalf? Go away, and take your news with you.  
  
"You speak of aid, but I do not see it. Do you bring swords, spears, and riders? For that is our need. Last time it was you who sought our aid. You begged a horse, and when my king graciously granted you one, any one, so long as you went quickly, you took Shadowfax! That was a sore price to pay, but some among us thought Shadowfax was not too great a price to speed you on your way. But now you return. I ask you again, what aid do you bring? We have no need for these ragged wanderers who follow at your tail --"  
  
"Be silent!" Gandalf said. "Do not speak of what you know little." Then, he addressed the king. "The courtesy of your hall has greatly lessened of late, Théoden king. Did your guards not announce these 'ragged wanderers,' as your councilor puts it? Seldom have you or your fathers, even back to Éorl the Young, welcomed three greater lords, and they have left weapons at your doors worth companies of riders.  
  
"Three swords and a quiver of arrows make not a great armoury --" Gríma began but again Gandalf interrupted him.   
  
"Silence!" He threw his grey cloak aside and revealed his white robes, and his eyes burned with a clear fire. "Keep your tongue behind your forked tooth, Master Snake! I have not passed through fire and water to battle words with you, O master of shadows and lies." He pounded his staff on the floor, then raised it in the air. Almost immediately the clouds thickened and the fire burned low; Gandalf alone could be seen clearly, a queer white light emanating from him. A side door opened and Éowyn ran in, wanting to see what all the noise was about.   
  
"His staff!" Wormtongue hissed. "Did I not warn you, my lord, to forbid the wizard's staff?" A flash of light filled the room and when it subsided Wormtongue was sprawled on his face.  
  
He turned to Théoden. "Now, my lord, will you hear me?" Great he seemed, and perilous. Théoden did not object, so Gandalf continued. He slowly lifted his staff toward the roof and, high above, the clouds parted and a single ray of light penetrated the windows. "All is not dark. Hope yet for tomorrow, for you will find no better help than what I bring with me. Counsel I would give you, yet it is not for all ears. Will you not walk out with me? Let us speak more in private." Slowly, Théoden nodded. He pulled himself up from his chair, and Éowyn ran to his side. She offered him her arm, and, leaning on her and his staff, he made his way down the dais and across the hall. When they reached the great doors Gandalf knocked.  
  
"Open!" he commanded. "The Lord of the Mark wishes to walk abroad."  
  
Quickly the doors opened, and all save Mellamir and Aragorn walked out. Mellamir had started to follow, but Aragorn stopped her. "May I have a word, my lady?" he asked.  
  
She nodded and led him out a side door into the courtyard. They stood looking out over the city for what seemed like a long time, until at last Aragorn broke the silence. "I knew your brother. We met in Rivendell, at a council held by the elf-lord Elrond. There a Halfling came bearing, well, the source of all our dooms. It was the decision of the council that that Halfling should travel to Mordor to destroy the ring, and that he be accompanied by eight, including myself and your brother Boromir.  
  
"We passed through many dangerous lands," he said. "We tried the Redhorn Gate in the Misty Mountains, but snow stopped us, and we had to turn back. Then Gandalf suggested we try Moria, an underground region that was a mine of the dwarves long ago but has long since fallen into disuse. There two of our company were injured in a skirmish with the orcs, but we passed through. Most of us, that is. One of the Halflings, Pippin, tossed a pebble into a well, and that woke a balrog, a demon of the ancient world. Gandalf fought it on the last bridge, and he fell into the great chasm beneath to let us escape. We thought he had died.  
  
"But there was no time for weeping. The orcs surely would have pursued us for many miles, as soon as darkness fell, so we had to be far away by that time. We made for the Elvish lands of Lothlórien. There we stayed for many weeks, but at last we had to press on. We sailed down the Great River, until at last we reached the Argonath. We camped near Amon Hen, and that night we were attacked by orcs and uruk-hai, evil servants of both Sauron and Saruman." Here he paused, and as he looked on Mellamir, sadness filled his eyes. "Your bro -- I'm afraid, Mellamir, that your brother -- there were so many -- " He stopped, and Mellamir looked at him, not sure at first what he was saying. At last understanding dawned in her eyes.  
  
"Boromir? No, he was too strong. It couldn't be -- " she looked at Aragorn, begging him to tell her she was mistaken, but he just looked back, that same pained expression on his face. "But -- but, he was so strong -- " A tear rolled down her throat, followed by one and then another, until at last she could not hold back any longer. She weeped uncontrollably and started to fall forward, but Aragorn caught her. He led her back to a stone bench against Meduseld, and the two of them sat down.  
  
He took off the glove he wore at his right wrist, and Mellamir noticed he didn't have a matching one at his other wrist. He gave it to her and said, "This belonged to your brother. I have carried it many miles, but I think he would like for you to have it." Mellamir took the glove and looked at it. Slowly she regained her composure and wiped away her tears.  
  
"It's j-just," she said at last, "every -- everything is falling apart. First Th-Théodred dying, then É-Éomer in jail, and now Bo-Boro -- "  
  
But she couldn't even say the name properly. It was too much, and a fresh tear rolled down her cheek. Aragorn took her hand, caressing it. "Your brother died nobly. He died protecting two of the Halflings, and while they were captured, they escaped and are now in Fangorn, with Treebeard. A great man, your brother."  
  
Mellamir looked up at the mention of Fangorn. "Treebeard?" she asked.   
  
Aragorn smiled. "Then you are not afraid of the old legends, like most in this land?" he asked.  
  
"And he -- he lived well," Mellamir said at last. "To die well, that is what he would have wanted. To die in battle."  
  
Aragorn nodded. "Our own doom may not be far off. But Boromir may save us all." He looked at her earnestly. "I think, these uruks, they were after just one thing, well, four things: the Halflings. And Boromir held them off, he alerted us by blowing his horn, and he gave the other Halflings time to escape.  
  
"Mellamir, you know that the shadows are growing. Boromir told me that you know. So I will not hide from you that one of those Halflings carries our greatest hope in this hour. Our only hope. Mellamir, your brother's bravery may someday rule the fate of all men."  
  
With that glimmer of hope she stood up and strapped Boromir's glove around her own right hand.  
  
"That's my girl," Aragorn said, patting her shoulder. "I know --"  
  
But with that he was quiet. Háma ran by with three guards escorting Éomer to the patio where Théoden and Gandalf were talking.  
  
"Come," Aragorn said, and the two ran after the guards. There Théoden and Gandalf stood in the high place, looking off toward the east, and Gimli and Legolas stood not far behind them. Théoden was looking down at his withered hand.  
  
"Alas," he said, "my old age is not all feigned. Why are these evil days mine? The young die, and the old linger on, withering past their prime."  
  
"You are not so old as Gríma would have you believe," Gandalf answered. "You would remember your old strength better if you grasped your sword."   
  
Théoden reached down to his side, but no sword was there. "Now where has Háma stowed it?" he asked himself.  
  
"Take this, my lord!" Théoden turned around and saw Éomer kneeling before him, holding out the hilt of his own sword. "It was ever at your service."  
  
"Who gave you back your sword?" Théoden asked sternly. At first none answered, so amazed were they at the change in Théoden. It seemed that half his years had melted away; he stood now tall and proud.  
  
At last Háma answered, "That was my doing, my lord. I heard that Éomer was to be set free, and when he asked for his sword, I saw no reason to refuse him."  
  
"I asked for my sword," Éomer explained, "so that I might lay it at your feet."  
  
For a long moment Théoden looked at his nephew, unsure of what to do. At last Gandalf asked, "Will you not take the sword?"  
  
Slowly Théoden extended his hand. He took the sword and raised it high, gently touching the broad side to his forehead. He let it lower slowly and swung it quickly through the air. Those who watched thought that the very spirit of Éorl the Young descended on him, and he called:  
  
_Arise now, arise, Riders of Théoden!  
  
Dire deeds awake, dark is it eastward.  
  
Let horse be bridled, horn be sounded!  
  
Forth Éorlingas!_  
  
Almost at once a dozen guards appeared from around the corner. They held their swords drawn and looked around in amazement. They thought they had been called to handle some emergency but their lord now appeared capable of handling anything fate might demand of him.  
  
Éomer smiled. "Never again, Gandalf, will it be said you bring only ill news!"  
  
"Keep your sword," Théoden said, "for you shall soon have need of it. But I need my own sword. Go, see where Gríma has stowed it." Háma and two of his guards ran into Meduseld and returned a few minutes later, Háma carrying Théoden's sword, the others carrying Wormtongue between them.  
  
Háma kneeled before Théoden, holding out the hilt of his sword. "Here, my lord, is your blade; I found it in Wormtongue's chest, with many other things that have of late been reported missing."  
  
"Lies!" Wormtongue answered. "And as for the sword, my king commanded me to keep it safe for him."  
  
"And now I need it," said Théoden, "for this very afternoon I will be riding forth with the Riders to the Westfold, where we are needed."  
  
Gríma looked around, first at Théoden and Éomer, then at the guards, and finally at Gandalf and his companions. A panicked look entered his eye, like that in a cornered animal before he strikes. He licked his lips nervously, then said, "Such a decision might be expected of a Lord of the Mark, but those who truly love him would spare his last years. But I see I am too late. Yet if I cannot save you, let me at least help your people. One who knows your mind should be left behind to govern them and keep them until your return. For I hope you will, though I do not think it hopeful. But let me stay and keep your people safe."  
  
Éomer laughed at that. "Anything to escape the war, I suppose?"  
  
"No," Gandalf said, shaking his head. "Even now Wormtongue plays his dangerous game. He has long sought the rule of Rohan, but not for himself." Then Gandalf turned to Gríma. "How long, Master Worm, since Saruman bought you? What was the promised price?"  
  
"You lie!" Wormtongue hissed. He looked around again, from cold face to cold face, until at last his eyes rested on Éowyn. Then Théoden remembered strange conversations he had heard between Éowyn and Wormtongue as they cared for him. Strange phantoms, they seemed, almost dreams themselves, but the look in Wormtongue's eyes as they rested on Éowyn confirmed Théoden's worst fears. Then Théoden remembered other things, news of attacks on hunters and orphans from the Westfold, and not least the cold stone door of his son's tomb. He took his sword and with a mighty yell lunged toward Wormtongue.  
  
"No, my lord!" shouted Mellamir. She threw herself at Théoden's knees and grabbed his arms, stopping the sword's descent. "He is a snake, true, but even a snake may crawl where he will if he does not turn his fang to us."   
  
Théoden looked down with surprise at the lady from Gondor. Where did she get this strength? Those were the arms of a warrior. His sword still raised, he asked, "What would you have me do with him, then?"  
  
"Give him a horse," Mellamir said. "With safety you can neither take him with you nor leave him here, but he was once a great councilor, so I have heard. Do not slay him; send him on his way."  
  
Théoden nodded. "So it will be." Two guards rushed to Wormtongue's side and held him up. "You have your horse," Théoden said, "and your freedom; but if I ever meet you again, I will not be merciful!"  
  
Suddenly such malice filled Wormtongue's eyes that the guards holding him backed up. He hissed and cursed in his native tongue, then at last spat at the king's feet. He ran off for the stables and was never seen in Edoras again. 


	19. The Road to Isengard

Chapter Eighteen - The Road to Isengard  
  
15 January - -3 March, 3018; Moria, Amon Hen, Rohan, and Isengard  
  
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_It all started with a pebble_, Merry thought. _The guard's well just stood there, and my silly cousin wanted to know how deep it was. So he dropped a pebble in. That was silly of him. And foolish._  
  
Merry sighed. Yes, it had been foolish for Pippin to drop the pebble down that well, but at the time, it had seemed innocent enough. He hadn't meant any harm, but harm had come of it. The noise that pebble made when it finally hit the bottom of the well, far below, had woken something that would have been better left alone. Then came the orcs, and the trolls, and battle. They had fled down the stairs and to the last bridge. There, Gandalf had made his last stand. That awful Balrog had tried to cross the bridge, but Gandalf wouldn't let him. They stood on the bridge, Gandalf and the Balrog, and when the Balrog had moved to pass, Gandalf broke the bridge with his staff. The bridge under the Balrog broke and crumbled into the abyss, but the fiery creature pulled Gandalf down with him, and the two fell, locked in combat, into the fathomless depths below Khazad-dûm.   
  
_Aragorn made us follow Gandalf's last command_, Merry thought: _to run_. So the remaining eight ran, pursued by orcs from Moria, across the Dimrill vale to the Elvish woods of Lothlórien. Boromir did not want to go there, but the rest were too exhausted to care where they went.   
  
_Boromir!_ Merry cried to himself. _What madness awoke in you there?_ It was in Lothlórien that Merry and the others first saw a change in Boromir, subtle at first but increasingly obvious as they moved down the Great River. Then the day had come when they had to decide what path to follow. To the east lay Mordor, the road they must take if they were to destroy the ring, and to the west Gondor. Boromir had decided he must go to Minas Tirith, and he wanted to take the ring with him. Wisdom said that was the path to take. Travel to Minas Tirith, and rest for a while; regain their strength before trying the road to Mordor. But Merry sensed a great shadow on his heart, and he guessed the others sensed it too.  
  
There, at Amon Hen, Boromir's will broke. He attacked Frodo and tried to seize the ring, take it to Gondor by force if Frodo would not go willingly. Frodo at last saw that the ring had taken control of Boromir, and he ran. An hour later Aragorn happened across Boromir and asked him when he had last seen Frodo. Boromir told him of their quarrel, and Aragorn went with Sam in search of Frodo. Everyone else ran in every direction in search of their comrade, but none of them could find him. That was stupid of us, Merry reflected, though of course he didn't know what would happen. Orcs attacked while the company was separated from each other. They made for Pippin and Merry, not to kill them but to take them as captives. At the last moment, Boromir had come down upon them, and he killed many orcs, but in the end, the man of Gondor was pierced by several arrows and lay dying against a tree. The orcs left, carrying Merry and Pippin away to Isengard.  
  
That was an awful run, across the plains. The orcs and uruks did not stop for night or day, and they crossed Rohan with a speed that the hobbits would have never thought possible. Merry didn't remember much of it, though; he had received a blow to the head and was unconscious for a lot of it. He did remember a foul-tasting liquor and a salve that burned his cut, many days and endless nights, being forced to climb over rocks, and then at last, the last battle at the very edge of Fangorn. There the riders of Rohan slaughtered those orcs and uruks who had not run off. Somehow, though, the Riders did not see the two hobbits among the dead orcs. _What will they do when they discover us_, Merry had wondered. Probably think them orcs and kill them, only finding out the difference later. That wouldn't do. Merry and Pippin made their way into Fangorn. True, they had heard many frightful tales of that ancient wood, but the unknown forest seemed less perilous than almost certain death at the end of a rider's spear.  
  
They wandered under the stifling branches for the better part of a day until at last they came to a small clearing. In the middle of a clearing stood a rock pinnacle, and up the sides there were rough, uneven stairs, so rough that the hobbits thought them just natural cracks in the rock. They thought to climb up the rock and get a better look at the forest, perhaps see a way out.   
  
But they couldn't see far. The forest was thick around them. Yet the sun broke through here, and that at least was encouraging.  
  
"It's nice here," Pippin noted.  
  
"Yes," Merry agreed, "but I fear it's only a passing thing. We must get down soon and try to find our way to somewhere or other by tonight." He looked around him. "What a pity! I almost thought I liked this old forest in the light."  
  
"Almost felt you liked the forest!" a voice boomed behind them. "Oh, that's nice, so uncommonly nice. I almost feel I dislike you. But we must not be too hasty." The two hobbits turned around to see the most frightening creature either of them had ever imagined. It was Treebeard, and if Mellamir had been there, she could have told him they needn't fear for anything. But she was not there, and Merry and Pippin had heard truly frightening tales of walking trees from the Lothlórien Elves. It did not help that both of them had been swallowed alive by a tree on the borders of their own lands, and the two of them tried to run from this new terror, but they did not get far.  
  
Merry reached out his hand and stopped his cousin from running, for the tree had not made any move to crush them under his feet or snap them in half. They turned around slowly and stared at the Ent, not with terror but with wonder. "Root and twig," he rumbled, "very odd you are. If I had seen you before I heard your voices -- nice voices, I liked them -- I might have taken you for little orcs. Yet it is plain now that you are not. But what are you?"  
  
That question took some explaining, for Treebeard knew as much of Hobbits as Mellamir had of Ents when she first came to Fangorn. Treebeard took Merry and Pippin to his home at the base of the Misty Mountains, and there they told most of what they had seen since they had left Rivendell months earlier. Not all, and nothing of the ring, but enough to interest Treebeard. The story took some time to tell because the hobbits would often interrupt each other and Treebeard questioned them, making them repeat what they had already said, but at last they had told everything of their quest that they felt comfortable saying. Treebeard did not press them; he had enough news to think on.  
  
The next day Treebeard called an Entmoot, a gathering of Ents, to discuss what Merry and Pippin had told him. He had long suspected and feared that Saruman was not a good neighbour but he was now sure of it. Pippin had mentioned something Gandalf had said at the council, that Saruman was tearing down the trees all along his border to feed the furnaces of Isengard. This, much to their surprise, upset Treebeard more than anything else. If the hobbits had known more of Ents they might have guessed that Treebeard was a guardian of the forest and cared for his trees above all else. The thought that someone as wise as a wizard should tear down trees so recklessly burned his heart, and Treebeard feared for Fangorn. Fangorn lay at Saruman's doorstep, and what would he do when he ran out of his own trees? He did not fear evil, that much was clear.  
  
The Ents talked for three long days before they made their decision, but that, Treebeard said, was a very hasty Entmoot. The Ents were going to war, to seize Orthanc or die in the attempt. _Hasty, perhaps_, Merry thought, _but not too hasty. The Ents are strong, and Saruman had best watch out._  
  
~*~  
  
Far away, Théoden and his company of Riders set out from Isengard. With him rode Éomer at his right hand, and Gandalf at his left. Mellamir rode her horse, Rimsul, a gift from Éomer, one of the best horses in the land, behind Éomer, and to her side, rode Aragorn on Hasufel and Gimli and Legolas on Arod, gifts from Théoden. Éowyn was not with them; she had wanted to come, but Théoden had charged her with governing the people. Éowyn led them to the mountain refuge of Dunharrow as Théoden rode to battle.   
  
They rode all that afternoon until, at last, evening caught them, and they rested. They lit no fires and the thick clouds blotted out the stars and the moon. That was an uneasy night, but Mellamir slept as best she could. Morning came and the darkness lifted, but the heaviness in the air did not. Still they rode on.   
  
Gandalf often rode ahead and peered at the horizon, but he could not see anything, at least anything he would share with others. At last, he rode back to Legolas. Quietly he asked the Elf, "You have the far-seeing eyes of your kindred. Tell me, can you see anything?"  
  
Legolas raised his hand to above his eyes and stared off to the western horizon. "I see a dark cloud gathering, and smoke. But I can see naught else. Only a great shadow."  
  
Gandalf nodded slowly. "And the shadow of Mordor comes behind us." Gandalf rode back to his place beside the king, and the company rode on for several more hours. At last, in the last light of the dying sun, a lone horseman came riding out of the west. His shield was broken and his helm dented, and he slowed his horse in front of the company.  
  
"Is Éomer here?" he asked. "He should return to Edoras; he comes too late."  
  
"Nay, not Éomer alone." And Théoden rode forward through the wall of guards, so that the man could see his King. "Théoden rides forward, with Éomer and the last host of the Rohirrim. They will not return without battle."  
  
The man bowed before Théoden, a look of both shame and joy lighting his face, and he offered his notched sword to the king. "Command me, lord! I thought --"  
  
"That I still sat stooped in Edoras. So it was when last you saw me. Take back your sword, and mount your horse. We ride to Erkenbrand and his men, to see if any still live to be saved."  
  
"Nay, lord!" Gandalf said. "Ride not to the Westfold; make for Helm's Deep. The storm comes. I must leave you for a while, on a quick errand, but I shall return. Look for me when you least expect me." Then Gandalf turned to Mellamir. "This is not your fight, and I promised your father I would keep you safe. You must ride with me." Mellamir thought to protest, but the look in Gandalf's eyes convinced her otherwise, and she urged Rimsul forward. But he shook his head. "Your horse is too slow. He is a great beast, but not fast enough. Let us ride Shadowfax together."  
  
Mellamir looked uncertain, but she dismounted and climbed on to Shadowfax behind Gandalf. Éomer said, "I will take Rimsul to Helm's Deep and stable him there, until I can return him to you." Mellamir nodded, and without another moment's delay, they shot off into the night.  
  
What a breathtaking pair, shooting across the plains as fast as a silver arrow, her young arms holding tight around his old waist to keep from falling off. Finally, they arrived at Fangorn, but everything was different. No huorns greeted them as they entered the forest, and the birds no longer sang.  
  
"Gandalf ...?" she asked. But he wasn't listening. He rode Shadowfax through a part of the forest where horses hadn't trod for many years, not since the Elves stopped coming there, until at last they reached the meeting point in the centre of the forest.  
  
"This is news," Gandalf said to himself as he dismounted. "A huorn stood here...and another. A moot! Treebeard has not called a moot for an age. But -- " he was silent for a moment, and far away, on the wind, he heard the sound of wood pounding wood, and songs of war, and voices shouting that sounded almost human. "Of course, Isengard. The Ents are storming Isengard."  
  
He quickly remounted, and before Mellamir knew what was happening the two of them were riding off at breakneck speed through the forest. Mellamir shouted, fighting the wind, "Isengard?"  
  
"That will have to wait," Gandalf said. "Quiet now, we must hurry!"  
  
At last, Gandalf and Mellamir saw Orthanc in the distance. As they approached, Mellamir noticed that it was not like the land she had seen in her dreams. The tower didn't stand in the middle of a wasted field but instead in a great pond with debris floating around. She looked away to the mountains and saw where the dam had been torn down. Shadowfax walked around a pile of rubble -- a house of some kind, and some caved-in pillars; Mellamir imagined it must have been some kind of a gate -- and saw Treebeard and other Ents standing away in the corner. With them were two boys who couldn't have been more than twelve; dressed in the strangest clothes she had ever seen.  
  
"Gandalf!" one of the boys cried. "You're alive? What happened to you?"  
  
"Whoa, Shadowfax, whoa," Gandalf said, and he and Mellamir dismounted. "I have fallen through fire and water, but there is no time to speak of that now. Wherever I have been, I am back. Treebeard! I am here on urgent business. Come, we must talk! I --"  
  
"How is this possible, Gandalf?" Mellamir interrupted. "When I was in Fangorn, Treebeard hadn't seen a child in years, and here are these two boys --"  
  
"Boys!" one of them cried. "Child! I like that, Pip, doesn't she know that we've come many a hundred miles, carried by orcs, half dead--?"  
  
But Gandalf merely chuckled to himself. "Boys! Mellamir, do you not listen? These are the Hobbits I told you about."  
  
"They still exist?" she asked incredulously.  
  
"What did you expect?  
  
But Mellamir was silent. Suddenly she walked over, picked the younger up under the armpits, and investigated him. She rubbed the cloth of his overcoat between her fingers, turned him around, and squeezed his cheeks to see if they were real.  
  
"Put me down, miss!" he cried. "Now! This very --"  
  
"Mellamir," Gandalf said, "I assure you they are very much alive. And when they kick you, it hurts. I would put him down if I were you."  
  
"But ... Halflings!" she exclaimed as she replaced the hobbit on the rubble. "Periannath, they still ... "   
  
"Yes." He turned to Treebeard. "I have returned you Mellamir. Rohan is in danger. Saruman's army is on the move, and they will be attacking Rohan within the week. Rohan's forces are scattered; they are not ready for a war. They need your help, like they have never needed it before."  
  
"A week," Treebeard said slowly. "We Ents hate those, barrum-brum, those orcs, and will do what we can, but ... a week. What do you want?"  
  
"I need all the huorns you can muster, and as quickly as possible. They must hold the orcs in."  
  
"But one week ... " Treebeard replied, "that is very hasty indeed, especially for an old Ent ... "  
  
"Yes, but it must be done."  
  
Treebeard nodded slowly. "Let us see, then. The huorns are away east. Come with me, and we will see what can be done." Gandalf and Treebeard set off, Treebeard's slow ent-strides matched easily by Gandalf's hurried pace. Mellamir stood before the two hobbits.   
  
"I am sorry about that," Mellamir said at last. "You must understand, though ... "  
  
"Don't mention it," the younger of the two replied.  
  
Mellamir laughed, a smile breaking across her face. "What I wouldn't do for a pipe and an hour to smoke it," she said, "to hear your tale ... "  
  
"Well, do you have your pipe?" the older one said at last.  
  
"Pipe ...?" Mellamir mused. "Why, yes but -- how do you know about it? I thought only Gandalf knew how to smoke a pipe, and maybe the occasional soldier from the North --"  
  
"Who do you think taught him the art?" the older one asked proudly.  
  
"You?" Mellamir cried. "Why, the world is full of wonders after all!"  
  
"Indeed," he laughed. "I am Meriadoc Brandybuck, but folks call me Merry; and this is Peregrin Took, though you can call him Pippin. We are hobbits, from the Shire."  
  
She stopped laughing and crossed her chest with her right arm in the traditional greeting. "I am Mellamir, of Gondor."  
  
"Gondor. Pip, you hear that?" Merry asked excitedly. "Say, you wouldn't know a Boromir, son of Denethor, would you?"  
  
"Yes!" she exclaimed. "He's my brother. Or was ..."  
  
Pippin nodded sadly. "Your brother. I'm so sorry, miss."  
  
Mellamir sat down on the rubble beside them. "If you don't mind my asking," she said at last, "how did he die, and you escape?"  
  
Merry frowned. "I don't really know," he said after a pause. "But those orcs, they just seemed to want us. They took us, and set off as soon as they had us." He looked up at her soberly. "Your brother saved my life, miss, and we're --"  
  
But they were interrupted as Gandalf strode quickly over. He unlatched Mellamir's saddlebags from Shadowfax and handed them to her. "I am off to Helm's Deep, you understand," he said, "with the huorns. I want you to stay here and keep safe. Talk to Treebeard and help how you can, but don't leave Isengard. You will be much safer here than anywhere else I can carry you."  
  
"I won't be left for baggage, to be claimed when the fighting's over!"  
  
Gandalf smiled. "No, you won't. There will come an hour when I can't save you any longer. But that is not this hour." And with that, he rode off. As he passed the horizon Mellamir settled down on the rubble, opened her bag, and pulled out her pipe. Merry, always the gentle-hobbit, opened his weed-pouch and filled it for her. They leaned back and looked up at the sky as the clouds passed by.  
  
"So tell me," Mellamir said at last. "You say you taught Gandalf the art? Who taught you?"  
  
"Who taught us?" Pippin asked indignantly. "No one. 'Course, the Bree-hobbits, they say they first grew the true weed, but they say that about most things, so I wouldn't give them no mind ... " 


	20. Ride Now, to Ruin!

Lady of Gondor Ch 19 - Ride Now, to Ruin!  
  
(Warning: Mentions but does not describe canon character death)  
  
3-6 March, 3018; Isengard  
  
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Those next two days were paradise for Mellamir, or at least as close to paradise as she could hope for with a war raging. Pippin distrusted her at first, but after Merry reminded him that a future thain should show a bit of respect for the sister of the man who saved his life, Pippin at last began to let down his guard. Because Pippin was, of course, a hobbit, letting down his guard meant loosing his tongue, and Mellamir provided a ready audience. She knew the little bits Gandalf had told her, that these halflings liked neat gardens, long walks under the trees, and parties; but beyond that, she couldn't tell a Bracegirdle from a Breelander, and she was ready to learn.  
  
Far away at Helm's Deep, however, the men of Rohan had significantly less time for idle talk. After Gandalf left them Théoden led his men toward the far-off hills, and when the sun set not long after they rode on. As they approached Helm's Deep Gimli looked at the great rock and was glad of it. There they fought a terrible battle. Théoden had naught more than two thousand men and he fought as best he could through the night, but the Orcs and Uruks of Saruman outnumbered them five to one. Saruman had also sent wildmen, Dunlanders, who hated the Rohirrim. They were not many, but these wildmen held an ancient grudge against the Rohirrim and would not stop fighting until either they or the king of Rohan was dead.  
  
They fought through the night, and at last the morning sun broke through the hills. As the first light broke a sound that had not been heard for a century came forth from the hills: the sound of Helm Hammerhand, the great horn of Helm's Deep, echoing out of the recesses. The Orcs and Uruks were amazed, and when Théoden, Éomer, Aragorn, and many other great warriors rode out to meet them, they backed away. Yet they did not back far, for they were hemmed in by a mysterious wood. And then Gandalf came at last, and with him many of Erkenbrand's lost company. The remaining army fled into the trees, and none were ever seen again.  
  
That next afternoon Gandalf rode to Isengard. With him rode Théoden and Éomer and twenty of his royal guard, and also Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. Théoden at first was sceptical why they should ride to Isengard with so few, and so Gandalf explained: Isengard had fallen and Orthanc was guarded by the Ents, who had sent these mysterious trees.  
  
"Ents," Théoden said, almost to himself. "Then there is truth in the old legends?"  
  
"There is more truth in old stories than in much men deem wisdom. But come, let us ride!"  
  
~*~  
  
While the men of Rohan fought Saruman's armies, Mellamir spent a day and a half listening to the halflings' tales (Merry had a few of his own, when Pippin let him get a word in edgewise). At last she asked, "So how did you come to Fangorn? The way Treebeard talked, I didn't think anyone ever went there, from east or west."  
  
Merry took a deep puff on his pipe. "That may be near the truth," he said at last. "At least he seemed rather surprised to see us." Something about that made Merry laugh. "You remember that, Pip? 'Hoh-biht? Never heard of a hoh-biht!'"  
  
"Aye, that was nearly the death of us, that was!" Pippin laughed. "I thought Treebeard was going to squeeze me into jelly. Would have been better for Bilbo to come through there instead of Mirkwood. Less dangerous, too --"  
  
"Bilbo, Bilbo ... I've heard that name before, Bilbo ... where've I heard it?"  
  
"He's a cousin of ours," Pippin answered. "Went off on an adventure with Dwarves, if half his stories're true."  
  
"And he went through Mirkwood? But that's where Sauron --"  
  
"Yes," Merry said, "he lived there a while ago. At least that's what Bilbo told me, and I trust him. Most of what old Bilbo learned, he learned from the Elves, or else from Gandalf himself. But Sauron, he's been in Mordor, out of Mirkwood, for a long time now."  
  
"That's when it all started, isn't it?" Mellamir asked.  
  
"Where, in Mirkwood? No, Bilbo had found the ring earlier, in the Misty Mountains. Won it in a riddle game from Gollum. Sméagol, they used to call him. Gandalf thinks he's some kind of a hobbit, but I can't believe it. He lived many a century past his kin, whatever he was, in a cave in the Misty Mountains. Bilbo found him there when he got separated from the Dwarves and won the Ring from him. Gollum left his cave to follow Bilbo and the Ring. Found out Bilbo was from the Shire, and found it, but never got in; I'm not really sure why. He sure enough followed us -- to Lothlórien, and down the Great River."  
  
"He's still chasing the ring?" Mellamir asked.  
  
"Him and the rest of Mordor," Merry answered.  
  
As fascinated as she was by the hobbits, though, Mellamir really wanted to see Treebeard. So when Pippin dozed off after elevenses and Merry pulled out his pipe Mellamir excused herself and wandered off. After walking through the scorched landscape along the edge of the putrid pond for some time she found a lone cluster of trees -- probably the only trees left in all Isengard, she thought. As she approached the branches opened up, letting her through. These weren't ordinary trees but huorns, Mellamir realized; and where Huorns were, Ents were never far away, and that meant Treebeard.  
  
"I wondered when you would come," a voice rumbled.  
  
She ran forward and hugged him around his trunk. "Those halflings... they're a sight, that's for sure. But I've missed you." They talked about all that had happened since she had left Fangorn years ago and were deep in talk about how best to heal this part of the forest when they heard hoofs far off. Many hoofs, and approaching quickly.  
  
They paused, a few dismounted, and then the rest rode on. Mellamir saw it was a great company, twenty-six strong, including Gandalf. Théoden, and Éomer.  
  
"Treebeard," Gandalf said as he dismounted. "We return, at last."  
  
Treebeard led them over to a table, laid with fresh fruit from Fangorn, roasted meats from the guards' shack, and spring water -- the hobbits had successfully raided Saruman's stores and chosen the best of what Treebeard called "man-food," but Treebeard had refused the ale they'd found. The company began to sit down, but Mellamir looked at Gandalf. "Where are the others?"  
  
"Over with Merry and Pippin. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli tracked those two truants across Emyn Muil and Rohan all the way to Fangorn -- no small task, I assure you -- and they've just now found them sleeping and smoking pipes with Isengard crumbled at their feet!" He laughed. "They're fine. A bit put off, perhaps, but physically fine."  
  
"But not all, Gandalf," said Théoden. "Many fell; Háma, for instance."  
  
"Háma?"  
  
"Yes," Éomer said. "He fell valiantly in battle." He looked out at the lake as he hungrily devoured the chicken in front of him. "Remember what you said? Sacrificing, if that is the only way to win?"  
  
"Sacrificing," Mellamir repeated slowly to herself.  
  
"He died valiantly," Théoden said, reaching his arm out to the guest who had become as a daughter to him. "If we had not fought, he would have died anyway. But men die in war. You know that."  
  
Mellamir nodded coldly but said nothing.  
  
Éomer looked around at the wasted land around him. "But it looks like ours was not the only battle yester-night."  
  
"Never forget that," said Gandalf. "Even if it doesn't look like you have any allies, remember Sauron's war has many fronts. The Golden Lady's folk in Lothlórien are always fighting the Orcs on their borders, and the Mirkwood Elves have been fighting Sauron for years; at one time he lived there, and their land has still not recovered. And Glóin's folk are also constantly tormented, for many years now. You are looking at Saruman's ruin -- done by the Ents, living legends. You are not alone."  
  
They sat around talking about the recent goings-on, about the Huorns and Helm's Deep and all that had gone on there, the great deeds of Aragorn, Éomer, Legolas and Gimli, and of the final charge of King Théoden and his men that finished off their foes; and Treebeard also told of the storming of Isengard. He, however, got increasingly frustrated as he would get out half a sentence and Éomer or Théoden would ask him a question and never allow him to finish his thought. Finally he grumbled, exasperated, "My, aren't you a hasty folk!"  
  
"Yes, and with good cause," said Gandalf, "for we are pressed for time." He turned to Théoden. "Come, it is time. Who will come with me to face Saruman?"  
  
They decided that Gandalf, Théoden, Éomer, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimi would go forward to represent the free peoples of Middle-earth. Gandalf, Théoden, and Éomer walked off to fetch the others while Treebeard and Mellamir carried the dishes over to a near-by spring and began to wash. While they washed they sang, or Treebeard sang and Mellamir listened. He sang of the Elder Days, of Yavanna and the coming of the first darkness. The deep songs wafted through the air until at last Saruman stormed out to his window. "Will you two stop --"  
  
But Gandalf stood there, not far from the base of Orthanc, and Saruman saw him, and he was sore afraid, though he did not show it. He talked to the emissaries, each in their turn: first to Théoden, then to Gimli, and at last to Aragorn before Gandalf interrupted. And Mellamir away at the creak heard a mighty crack, and a few seconds later a great thud. Treebeard scooped her up and with great Ent-strides crossed Isengard to where Gandalf was taking a great rock from Pippin, who had been watching the scene a little ways back.  
  
"A palantír!" Mellamir exclaimed as she climbed quickly down Treebeard and ran over. "But they were destroyed ages ago, at least all of them except the one in Minas Tirith."  
  
"Hardly," Gandalf replied. "Gondor lost control of most of them as her influence waned, but many survived. Saruman had one, though I did not guess it. Ah, now I understand how he talked with Sauron so many leagues away, and how he knew my every move from Rivendell to Moria!"  
  
"Gandalf, what happened?" Mellamir asked.  
  
"Saruman is fallen. I cast him down, and I broke his staff. Treebeard, I need you to guard him. Do not kill him, but don't let him escape."  
  
"Do not worry, Gandalf," Treebeard replied. "The Ents and Huorns will guard him well. He has killed trees."  
  
"Good," Gandalf said quickly, turning to Mellamir. "I must go on to Minas Tirith. Denethor's situation is dangerous. Too dangerous for you. I want you to go back to Rohan with Théoden. But we will ride together at least as far as Helm's Deep."  
  
"Gandalf, no. I want to go with you. One of my brothers is dead, and the other will be soon, if half of what you say is true."  
  
"All the more reason for you to stay alive. We must prepare for every possibility, for success and for failure. If Gondor survives, but Faramir dies, you must live so that you can lead your people."  
  
"I'm tired of being safe," she snapped. "Everyone always tells me to stay behind like a good little girl, then comes for me when the world seems safe again. But nowhere is safe. Saruman probably thought Isengard was safe, but look at it, it lies in ruins! When I went to Rohan it was safe, but not any more. If Sauron's arm is so long that he can strike me down wherever I sleep, then let me ride to battle so that my death will do some good."  
  
"Mellamir, I understand what you are saying. Believe me, I do. I've known this war was coming for a long time now, but I had to wait until its time came. But trust me: you can fight in more ways than on a battlefield. You are destined to have a death, and a life, that means something." He reached over and squeezed her shoulder. "I want you to return to Éowyn. She needs you now more than ever."  
  
Éomer stepped forward. "My lady, if you will ride with me, I would gladly carry you safely to my sister.  
  
Mellamir looked at him and smiled. "You needn't carry me that far; just take me to Helm's Deep, and I'll ride Rimsul from there." 


	21. Return to Dunharrow

Chapter Twenty - Return to Dunharrow  
  
(Warning: RotK Spoilers)  
  
5-10 March 3018; Isengard and Rohan  
  
-----------------------------------------------------  
  
That very afternoon the entire company set out for Helm's Deep. The Fellowship of the Ring, or what was left of it, led the way: Gandalf and Merry on Shadowfax, Aragorn and Pippin on Hasufel, and Legolas and Gimli on Arod. Close behind came Théoden on Snowmane and Éomer and Mellamir on Firefoot, followed by the twenty Éorlingas who had come with their king to Isengard. Before coming to Isengard Théoden had meant to ride straight back to Edoras, but after meeting with Saruman Gandalf decided it was too dangerous for so large a company to travel in plain view of any spies. They would make for Helm's Deep, which they could hopefully reach in two days of hard riding, and then take to the mountain paths where they could travel more secretly.  
  
They rode for a few hours until the sun set and all light was gone. Then Shadowfax, Hasufel, and Arod stopped suddenly, and the company dismounted and made camp. They ate dinner -- salted pork and ale from Isengard, battle-biscuits from Théoden's stores, and such fruits and nuts as they could find in the valley -- and lit a fire. Théoden chose three of his men to take an hour's guard, the first one started his duty, and everyone else went to bed almost immediately.  
  
Mellamir, being the only woman in the camp, took her blanket and laid down some distance from the men, on the other side of a thin line of trees -- still in view of the guards, but well enough separated to satisfy Théoden's and Gandalf's sense of modesty. The king and the wizard went off on their own to take some private council about the next day's ride and made their beds a bit off. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli made their beds with Éomer and the other Éorlingas, but the hobbits, not wanting to sleep under the open air (they had had enough of that with the orcs to last quite some time) made their beds near the trees that separated Mellamir from the rest.  
  
Because Merry and Pippin lay closer to her than anyone else, Mellamir heard their conversation that night. They were talking about the rock that Wormtongue had thrown from Orthanc, and this was the first Mellamir had heard anyone speak of it since they'd left Isengard. Pippin was impatient with curiosity, but Merry was tired, and Mellamir agreed with him. She wished the two would settle down and go to sleep, or at least stop making so much noise so that _she_ could nod off.  
  
She had finally gotten to sleep when she was awakened by someone yelling out in pain. She sat up quickly, pulled her robe around her, and snuck through the trees to see what was the matter. Not far through the grove she saw one of the hobbits -- Pippin, she thought -- hopping on the ground, holding his toe in his hand; he'd obviously stubbed it on a root or something of that sort. He looked around quickly to see if he'd woken anyone up. Mellamir hid behind one of the trees, and before long the hobbit darted through the grove and came across the soldiers, sleeping. He tiptoed around the edge of the grove -- and so did Mellamir, now very interested in what he was doing. She started following to make sure he didn't get into trouble, but if truth were told she was just as interested in what Pippin found so intriguing and knew he wouldn't go for it if he knew she was awake.  
  
So inch by inch they crept. Finally they came to where Théoden and Gandalf were sleeping by themselves. Pippin found a rock and wrapped it in the jacket that he'd carried with him. Then he snuck up behind Gandalf and slowly lifted the wizard's arm. He took the rock from Isengard and replaced it with the rock he'd just wrapped, then hurried away and started to unwrap the palantír.  
  
He seemed hesitant and started to wrap it back up, but then his curiosity got the better of him. He unwrapped the rock all the way and stared into it. Mellamir crept closer. She was afraid he would look up and notice her, but after seeing how Pippin was completely engrossed in the rock, she got braver and crept to right behind him, stood up, and peered over his shoulder.  
  
For a long time the rock was black. It appeared to be some kind of obsidian. Then all of the sudden the black seemed to melt away; it became gray, swirls of gray and dark purple, crimson red and orange, like clouds in the setting sun. Then suddenly the clouds parted and revealed a single flaming red eye. _What could it mean?_ Mellamir wondered. Whatever it was, it was terrible: Pippin almost immediately started screaming. He lay there on the ground, twitching and kicking, at last kicking the stone with his furry little foot, pushing it into Théoden's shoulder. "What the --?" Théoden said, sitting up with a start.  
  
Mellamir was trying to hold Pippin still, but with little success. Finally she grabbed both of his shoulders and pinned him down to the ground. Gandalf, awoken by the hobbit's screams, was kneeling in front of him.  
  
"Peregrin Took. Come back. Come back, Pippin, come to my voice," Gandalf said calmly, though Mellamir could see in his old grey eyes a panic she had never seen there before.  
  
Suddenly Pippin's eyes opened, and he stopped twitching. "What did you see?" Gandalf said at last. "Concentrate, now. This is important." But Pippin looked uncertainly at those around. Gandalf, concerned as he was, was stern. "What did you see?"  
  
"I'll go get Merry," Mellamir said quietly. The other hobbit was so tired that he didn't wake up even in all the commotion; he certainly was the only one. Mellamir bent over Merry and gently shook his shoulder. No reaction. "Wake up, Merry," she said softly into his ear, then repeated herself more loudly. Still no reaction. Then Merry's eyes opened, and he looked with blind terror into the night sky. He curled into a fetal position, holding his hands against his ears, and started screaming. Mellamir heard a swoosh behind her, and when she looked up she saw a giant winged beast flying toward Isengard.  
  
Merry, now quite awake, still lay curled in the fetal position. "Come on," Mellamir said. Merry hopped up and ran off toward Gandalf with a speed that Mellamir found hard to match. They were passed by Pippin running in the opposite direction.  
  
"What was that all about?" Mellamir asked Gandalf when she got back to the group. Gandalf was hastily packing his bag, and Aragorn was holding the stone. "Where'd Pippin run off to in such a hurry? And what's wrong with Merry?"  
  
"You didn't notice anything?" Gandalf asked, surprised. "You did not feel anything? Nothing at all?"  
  
"Only the night air. What happened?"  
  
Gandalf shook his head in disbelief, but decided against explaining; there was no time. "Our situation is much more perilous than I at first thought," Gandalf said at last. "We have been saved from almost certain doom by Pippin, but he is now in danger. Least of all can he afford to stay here. I am going to Minas Tirith -- now. The Black Riders have just crossed --"  
  
"Black Riders?" Mellamir asked. "Here?"  
  
"Yes, they have passed, and you must be the only one that did not know it." He shook his head again in amazement. "They weren't coming for Pippin -- even they take some time to make the trip -- but by now they know all about us, and Pippin cannot stay here. I am taking him to Minas Tirith, immediately."  
  
"Can't I come, Gan --"  
  
"No," he said emphatically. "For one, you do not have a horse, and even Shadowfax cannot carry all three of us. And Minas Tirith is still not safe, you know that. If anything it is even less safe. Mellamir, I do not have time to explain, but you must stay safe and survive this war. You have just now proven, once again, how absolutely vital your survival is. I want you to go back with Théoden to Rohan. Éowyn will need your help; she has come to count on you." Pippin came running back with his pack, and Gandalf whistled. Shadowfax strode up to him, and Gandalf pulled himself onto the horse. Mellamir placed Pippin in front of him, and Merry came running up.  
  
Gandalf turned to Théoden and said, "Hurry, now, to Helm's Deep. I know you are tired, but I hope you value your lives more than your sleep. I take the greatest danger with myself, but you still have one of the halflings, a worthy prize for Sauron. Good speed! Make straight for Helm's Deep.  
  
"Pip!" Merry cried, holding out a small leather satchel. Mellamir took it from him and handed it to his cousin.  
  
"But ... but this is your leaf?" Pippin said as he opened it. Merry nodded. "The last of your leaf."  
  
"You smoke too fast," Merry said, trying to force a smile.  
  
"Well, I'm not going to have any time to smoke, Merry, and I'll see you soon." Gandalf pat Shadowfax's stomach and whispered something in his ear. The proud horse began to paw the ground. "Won't I?" Pippin looked down at Merry.  
  
"I --"   
  
Pippin looked down, his eyes burning with a secret pain, and he repeated his question. "W-won't I?"  
  
"I don't know," Merry admitted, and he stretched his hand up to Pippin to give him a final squeeze. Pippin reached down but he couldn't reach his cousin's outstretched hand. "Merry..." he began.  
  
"Ride, Shadowfax!" Gandalf cried, and the horse shot off, carrying with it a high-pitched wail.  
  
"*Pippin!*" Merry cried, running after Shadowfax. Mellamir ran after him and grabbed him, but then, much to her surprise, she kept running. Merry was sobbing, tears falling on Mellamir's shoulders, and he gasped for breath. A second later Shadowfax was gone, bearing his two riders into the horrific unknown of the East.  
  
~*~  
  
The rest of the company set off not long after that. They were tired, but none of them wanted to rest with that winged terror in the air. They had ridden several leagues when Éomer held up his hand for all the horses to stop. "Æstandan!" he bellowed into the darkness, lowering his spear. "Who rides in Rohan?"  
  
"Rohan?" said a voice in the background. "That is good news indeed! We have ridden all the way from Eriador, far away in the north, in search of this land."  
  
"Well, you've found it," Éomer answered. "And no one can ride here unless they have the permission of Théoden, who rides with us."  
  
"State your quest," said Thédoen. "You ride through the shadows. Who are you, that you hide your face from judgment?"  
  
"That is certainly not my purpose." Slowly the men rode forward out of the shadows of the trees, into the moonlight. Most could not place the strange faces. They wore cloaks of a material the Rohirrim had never seen, but their horses, though strange and with heavier fur, looked somehow akin to the horses the men of Rohan rode. Yet one of their company at least recognized these riders from the north. Aragorn jumped down off his horse and ran over. "Halbarad!"  
  
With that Théoden laughed. "Raise your spear, sister-son! Any friend of Aragorn is welcome in Rohan. We certainly cannot afford to refuse any allies these days, and if they are as valiant as the lord Aragorn ... but who are they?"  
  
"My lord, I am Halbarad, of the ancient northern lands of Arnor. I bring with me thirty swords. We have ridden with Aragorn for many years before he ever came south. And also, I ride with Elrohir and Elladan."  
  
But Théoden looked puzzled at this last statement. "Elrohir? Elladan?"  
  
"The sons of Elrond," Halbarad clarified.  
  
"Elrond?" Théoden asked.  
  
"Lord of Imladris," Legolas volunteered. "Rivendell."  
  
"Rivendell?"  
  
"Elrond," Aragorn said at last, "is a mighty elf-lord who lives far away in the west. He has sent his two sons, and they are great warriors. Any king should be glad to have their service."  
  
"Indeed I am. Elves. That is strange news, though not wholly unwelcome. But, Aragorn, this land is open ..."  
  
Aragorn nodded. "Halbarad, we are exposed here. Come, let us ride to Helm's Deep. It is not far off, and we can talk there much more safely."  
  
The sun was rising ere the company reached Helm's Deep, and Mellamir and Merry went immediately off to bed -- in a real bed, in a chamber in the fortress, the first bed either had slept in for a long while.  
  
Near lunchtime they were woken by a knocking on the door. "Come in," Merry answered groggily, and in came Legolas and Gimli.  
  
"Wake up, Master Sluggard," Legolas said with a laugh. "The sun has already climbed higher than your people stand fully grown. Although you may well be the exception -- I still marvel at your height! It is a good thing we Elves do not fancy that Ent-draught or we would be taller than the trees. But the sun will soon pass even you. What's more, your lunch is ready."  
  
"Fine; give us a moment to get dressed," Mellamir said. Merry, however, looked at her oddly. "Pardon me, miss, but we'll be needing separate rooms," he said with a blush.  
  
"No problem!" Gimli said with a mighty laugh at his friend's coyness. "There is a bathing chamber just down the hall where Merry may change. Get your clothes, Merry." He turned to Mellamir. "We will just wait out in the hall. Come out when you are ready."  
  
Twenty minutes later Mellamir, Legolas, Gimli, and Merry were walking toward the Great Hall outside the Hornburg, deep inside Helm's Deep. They entered to find four long tables where eleven or twelve men sat, the Riders of Rohan and the Dúnedain of the North. At a shorter table near the head of the room Mellamir saw Théoden, Éomer, Elrohir, and Elladan. Aragorn and Halbarad, though, were nowhere to be seen.  
  
Gimli guessed Mellamir's question. "They're in the high chamber, up in the Fortress. Aragorn slept about an hour before he woke up, _hadn't been able to sleep_, he said. _Something Elrohir had told him last night_, he mumbled. _What was it?_ I asked him. _'If thou art in haste, remember the Paths of the Dead,'_ I think he said. Something like that; and then he said he wanted to be alone, so he went up to the Hornburg. Anyway, soon as Halbarad woke up, Legolas told him where Aragorn had gone and what he'd said, and Halbarad went to find him straight away."  
  
They had eaten and were packed and saddled, sitting on their horses outside the gates of Helm's Deep, before Aragorn at last ran down from the Hornburg.  
  
"My lord," he said to Théoden. "How soon could you marshal an army and ride to Minas Tirith?"  
  
"Let me see," Théoden said, thinking to himself. "It is now past noon. We could not hope to reach Edoras before tomorrow evening. That will be the first night after the full moon; the next day is the summons, where all the men who can fight are assembling. Even if I were to ride straight away, as soon as we were outfitted, it would take the better part of a week. I guess that we could see the White City in ten days' time, but not much sooner."  
  
"Ten days," Aragorn said with a sigh. "But it can't be hurried." He looked back at Halbarad who nodded. "My lord, in that case, we must part company. Make for Dunharrow with all possible speed. I -- I must make my own way. Those who would ride with me, we take the Paths of the Dead."  
  
"The Paths of the Dead?" Éomer exclaimed. "But why? That is an evil road; legend says that it is haunted by ghosts who do not permit men to pass."  
  
"Perhaps not ordinary men. Yet I come from a proud line, and somehow I believe they will allow me passage. I must at least attempt that road. Gondor is now in danger, and I must ride to Minas Tirith with all speed."  
  
"Very well," Théoden replied. "But who will go?"  
  
"I can only speak for myself," Aragorn answered; "I do not ask others to come with me, for I know the way is dangerous."  
  
"Nay," Halbarad replied, "we Rangers do not fear danger. We have ridden all this way to follow you, wherever you lead us. We at least will ride those paths."  
  
"And I as well," said Legolas. "What for it, Gimli? To war?"  
  
"To war," the Dwarf said with an uneasy look on his face.  
  
"And I!" shouted Merry.  
  
"No," said Aragorn. "You go with Théoden to Dunharrow. To Dunharrow, Théoden, not to Edoras, if you would take my counsel. Your capital is too open. Meet your captains in Dunharrow, and ride as soon as you can to Minas Tirith."  
  
That very hour the Éorlingas rode forth: Théoden on Snowmane, Éomer on Firefoot, Mellamir on Rimsul, Merry on Stybba, a hardy pony gifted him by the king, and the rest of the Riders on the horses they had rode to Helm's Deep. They rode through the mountains, by night, for three nights until at last they reached the plains and saw smoke in the distance, signs of a low fire far away. They rode for it.  
  
~*~  
  
Aragorn, after taking the palantír from Gandalf, had used it at Helm's Deep and revealed himself to Sauron. Sauron now knew that the Ring had been found and that Isildur's heir -- the very same Isildur who had taken his ring so many years ago -- had now returned. He feared more than anything that this Aragorn might have the ring and use it as a weapon against Mordor. But he also knew that it took time to learn how to use the ring, or at least to take advantage of all the ring's power, and so for at least a little while Gondor was still weak. Once Aragorn arrived, though, and once he learned how to use the ring ... Sauron was not entirely ready to start this war, but he realized he had to do so quickly or risk defeat. So he sent his armies against Minas Tirith. Aragorn knew he would do this but realized too late that he was still a week's journey from Gondor, and that he did not have any army to command, except for his friends and the handful of Rangers -- valiant heroes, but not enough to save Gondor by themselves.  
  
But Aragorn remembered Elrond's advice: "If you are in haste, remember the Paths of the Dead." He certainly was in haste, and if the paths would allow him and his friends to pass, they would cut several days off his trip. It was a terrifying ride, through dark stony passes (and, if old tales were true, with ghosts all around him), but at last Aragorn and his friends came out on the other side, in Lebennim in southern Gondor, and rode forth to war.  
  
Théoden, Mellamir, Éomer, Merry, and the Éorlingas had a singificantly easier ride. They passed Edoras and kept riding toward the smoke rising out of Dunharrow without even stopping. The sun set, and still they rode on. Finally Merry began to notice tents of animal hides on wooden platforms among the occasional farm houses. The evening mist turned into a lazy rain, weighing down Merry's cloak and turning the dirt road to an oozing mud. Still they rode on until at last, away in the distance, Merry saw a rock wall rising in front of them. As they got closer he saw a steep stone path. At last they dismounted, giving their horses to men at the base of the stone path, and continued walking. They went up, up, up, until at last the path leveled out.  
  
She was stooping down, adding wood to the low fire in the centre of the square. Her long blond hair was tied in a loose ponytail and pinned up out of her way. At her side a small girl with tangled brown hair and a sunburnt and dirty face was holding a faggot of firewood. Mellamir recognized the girl as Tova, the child who had fled the Orcs pillaging the Westfold; she was much plumper and healthier looking, now, but hardly cleaner. The child looked over her shoulder at the sound of metal-toed boots clicking against hard stone and, seeing all the men, poked the woman in her shoulder.  
  
Finally the woman looked back and, seeing the company, rose at once. It was Éowyn, but not the Éowyn that Théoden remembered. The dress (a dark green cotton jumper over a pale pink blouse) was no new sight -- she'd worn it for years -- but some of the stains were new: dirt of the road from Edoras, and blood and tears that she had wiped away, and perhaps some of her own. And the smile her uncle recognised, but not all of the wrinkles. Before her smile had been carefree, but now it seemed weary, and her shoulders were stooped like one who had to carry burdens too heavy for her.  
  
"Good evening, gentlemen," she said wearily. "I have prepared a meal for you, if you will go to it."  
  
Éowyn led Théoden to the inner pavilion where they sat at the king's table with Éomer and Mellamir. Merry stood at the king's right side. Dúnhere, lord of this valley, came in and sat down, and finally after drinks and appetizers the king turned to the hobbit. "Come, Merry; sit down. This pavilion is not nearly as nice as Meduseld, but please... sit, and tell me more of your land." Mellamir saw the worried look in his eyes and guessed his thoughts: "This pavilion is not nearly as nice as my hall, but go on: we may never see the inside of my hall."  
  
Merry had hardly begun his tales when suddenly the curtain leading to the outer pavilion was pulled back and the Captain of the Guard entered. "Pardon the interruption, my lord," he said, "but a man is here: a messenger from Gondor."  
  
"From Gondor? Show him in at once."  
  
The man was tall with brown shoulder-length hair, wearing a green cloak and a shirt of fine mail with a small silver star on the breast; Merry thought he looked like Boromir, and at first that frightened him. But the others in the room, not being as familiar with Boromir or as unfamiliar with Gondorians in general, saw only the arrow the messenger held in his hand. It was black feathered and barbed in steel, with the tip painted blood-red.  
  
"A red arrow!" Théoden almost shouted, knocking over his seat in his rush to stand up.  
  
"Halle Théoden cyning!" the messenger said. "Friend of Gondor, the Lord of Gondor sends this message: Mordor stirs. His forces are crossing the Great River, and they will soon be marching against the White City of Minas Tirith. They may already be pounding down the gates as we speak. So says Hirgen, messenger of the White City, and all who stand with the Steward."  
  
"Has it really come to this?" the king mused. "The last days of the West?" Then he looked up and remembered the others in the room. "What does your master want of his allies, Hirgen, messenger of the White City?"  
  
"All your strength with all your speed," Hirgen replied.  
  
"And what might that be, in the eyes of the Steward?" Théoden asked.  
  
"You know that better than he," Hirgen said. "But if Gondor falls, Rohan will follow. So I urge you, send whomever you can, and do not hold back any you can avoid. Keep back only the bare minimum to guard your women and children, and ride to Gondor as soon as may be; else, I fear you will only be able to sit down and throw stones at the Orcs that hold the Rammas, by the time you reach the City."  
  
~*~  
  
Later that night Éowyn and Mellamir were in Éowyn's room getting ready for bed. Finally Mellamir asked the question she had wanted to ask since she first saw Éowyn's worried face.  
  
"What is wrong?" she asked.   
  
After a long silence Éowyn replied, "It's ... it's Aragorn."  
  
Mellamir looked at Éowyn expectedly, and when at last her friend did not continued Mellamir promped, "Yes... go on, Aragorn."  
  
"Well, he came here two nights ago and left before sunrise the next morning. With that elf and that dwarf, and several other men I'd never seen before. He said he was headed for the Paths of the Dead. Queer name; I've heard it before, but do not know much about it. Do you?"  
  
"A little. I read about it in Minas Tirith, years ago. Back in the War of the Last Alliance there was a group of men living in these mountains. They promised to serve Elendil, Isildur's father. But then Sauron came and persuaded them to serve Mordor. I can't remember if they just refused to fight or if they actually fought against Gondor, but at any rate they broke their word. They were traitors. And Isildur told them, if Gondor survived the war, that those men would not rest until they fulfilled their vow. Gondor of course survived, and the men ... well, that is where history stops and legend begins."   
  
"Some say they died long ago. Some say they died but their souls could not get past the entrance to the pass and over the seas to the Hall of Mandos -- that's where we in Gondor believe men go when they die, to Mandos's mansions in Valinor. Some say they stopped aging, that they are just like they were that day Isildur took the Ring. And some say they kept aging, getting older and older every day, just not dying. Sauron was thrown down, so they could not fulfil their vow. But legend says that, if they still live, Sauron would rise again and they would someday come to fight him. I would guess Aragorn went to find them."  
  
"We have legends in Rohan as well," Éowyn replied. "Long ago, when the Riders went north in the days of Brego, his son Baldor rode up toward the door to the path. There he found an old man who said just one thing to him: 'The way is shut.' Baldor waited there for some time, then the man spoke again. 'The way is shut. It was made by those who are Dead, and the dead keep it until the time comes. The way is shut.' So I ask you: how can Aragorn hope to pass through there, if the way is shut?"  
  
"Cheer up, Éowyn," Mellamir replied. "The way is shut, yes, but the dead keep it until the time comes. You know the rumours, and you have seen the red arrow. It is time for the dead to fulfil their promise. Have not you heard of Saruman's Uruks at Helm's Deep?"  
  
"No, I was hidden away here in Dunharrow, remember?" Éowyn snapped. "Nobody bothers to tell me anything. You at least got to go off to fight."  
  
"So that's what's bothering you," Mellamir said.   
  
It wasn't a question, but Éowyn answered it anyway. "Yes, I suppose so. Not the only thing, mind, but I'd be lying to say it didn't bother me."  
  
"Éowyn, they didn't let me fight," Mellamir replied. "We rode out to the Isen, then Gandalf took me and left me in Isengard, already taken by the Ents. I didn't see any of the Uruks either."  
  
"But you at least went to Isengard!" Éowyn answered her. "First being sent to this valley, and now the men are riding forth to war. I am so _tired_ of this cage! Old women and crying brats. But I am no wet-maid, I'm a shield-maid."  
  
"But your uncle gave you this job," Mellamir argued. "It's important. All of Rohan answers to you."  
  
"Important, yes, but beneath me," Éowyn said. "I can do so much more for my people." She sighed. "I wanted to ride with Aragorn, did you know that? Even to the Paths of the Dead. But he said -- he said I should stay here, and when all the men fell, then the Eye would turn to Rohan, and then I would have my chance for honour, when valour was gone. In other words, I can die when the men no longer need me."  
  
Mellamir saw the tears in Éowyn's eyes and knew this was no petty whim. She thought for a moment, then said, "If your uncle had appointed some guard to watch over the people, say Háma, then Háma decided he wanted to go off to war instead, would Théoden let him?"  
  
"No," Éowyn admitted.  
  
"Not even if someone else volunteered to take his place?" Mellamir asked, a twinkle in her eye.  
  
Éowyn smiled, then, for the first time in several days. 


	22. The Long Night

Lady of Gondor Ch Twenty-One - The Long Night  
  
(Warning: Return of the King spoilers; fairly graphic description of wartime situations.)  
  
Mid-March 3019; Dunharrow  
  
---------------------------------  
  
The next morning Éowyn arose early and walked to the armoury. There she found a helm just large enough for her. She looked at the name inscribed inside the rim: "Dernhelm." He had been one of the soldiers who guarded the women and children of this valley, but while the battle of Helm's Deep raged some of the Dunland men had attacked the other mountain strongholds, and Dernhelm had died protecting Dunharrow. _What would you think_, Éowyn wondered, _knowing that I will ride to war wearing your helm? Would you be proud? Most likely not. You died to protect your way of life, where the men ride off to war and the women stay home and weep. But not I._ She wiped the blood from the helm and placed it over her golden hair, now pinned tightly against her head, then fastened her sword to the girdle she wore around the waist of her britches. Now properly dressed in the uniform of a Rider of Rohan, Éowyn went to go join the soldiers preparing to ride to Gondor.  
  
When Théoden and Éomer rode off towards Minas Tirith they had with them two more soldiers than either of them guessed. Besides Éowyn, Merry also rode off to war against the king's command. He had pledged his sword to Théoden at Helm's Deep, but Théoden had ordered him to stay at Dunharrow where he would be safe, using the excuse that he would be a burden and would slow down the rider who had to carry him since he was too short to ride anything bigger than a pony. But Merry rode in secret under the cloak of Dernhelm across the plains and through the woods all the way to Minas Tirith.  
  
They made their way to Minas Tirith at last and fought in the Battle of Pelennor Fields. It was there that Théoden finally shook off the last hindrances of old age as he stood upon the fields of Gondor. He rode across the fields of Pelennor until at last he stood before the Witch-king, the lord of the Black Riders. There death found him, as his horse bolted and collapsed on top of him.  
  
Merry guessed that this Witch-king might be somehow related to the Black Rider that chased his friends across the Shire and had driven them into the Old Forest (which hobbits almost always avoided), and perhaps was the very one that had attacked his cousin Frodo at Weathertop and had been washed away in a flood outside Rivendell. Mellamir knew nothing of all this, but perhaps she could have explained to him why she shuddered at the mention of the name "Angmar" and told him the purpose of the curses that lay on his knife. But it would not have made any difference, if he had known more of why he should fear this witch king; he feared him, and as the elf Gildor had told him way back in the Shire, that was enough.  
  
The Witch-king stooped to carry off the king's body, but Dernhelm stood guard over it. The Witch-king ordered her to move or be killed herself, or worse; yet still Dernhelm refused and said that whoever defiled her king's body, be he man or living undead, would pay for it with his blood. "Fool!" the Witch-king bellowed. "Do you not know who I am? No mortal man can slay me!"  
  
Then Dernhelm took off her helm and tossed it aside, and Merry saw that it was Éowyn. The Witch-king lowered his mace on Éowyn's shield, cloving it in two, breaking her sheild-arm, and bringing her to her knees. All the others around simply stood there, frozen in their fright. _Éowyn ... _Merry thought. _And Théoden dead. What can I do? Just a bag to burden some Rider?_ He started to move but felt fear wash over him like icy water. _No_, he thought to himself at last, _one so fair and brave should not die; or at least she should not die unaided_. He crawled along the ground and as the Witch-king moved to make his final blow Merry took out his small blade and stabbed the Witch-king just below the knee. The Witch-king let out a great cry of anguish, and Éowyn drove her own blade into him. Then as the Witch-king faded and his shadows blew away into the wind, the woman and halfling who had at last killed that great terror collapsed on the field. The battle raged on around them, and it was some time before Éomer found them, and thought them dead.  
  
~*~  
  
Those were dark days in more ways than one, as much in Dunharrow as in far-off Gondor. The sun set that night Théoden arrived at Dunharrow and didn't rise again the next morning. That alone was scary enough for Tova: besides being a small girl still half-scared of the dark, the night reminded her of the night the Uruk-hai attacked her mother and sister, forcing her to run away from home. The other women understood exactly why it was that the army had rode away, but no one explained that to Tova; at least she didn't have a brother or father away in that cavalry. Mellamir was busy from the hour the sun would have risen to the hour it would have set, comforting the women and the children, distributing food (what little food they had; they sorely missed the harvest from the Westfold), and building fires. That first day after the men left Tova followed her everywhere until at last she fell asleep leaning against a bush outside of the lady Lailawyn's house, and Mellamir left her there while she went about her tasks. Everyone who passed by stopped to see this young girl, filthy and exhausted with no bed, but Lailawyn would not let anyone take her into their home because she didn't want to frighten the poor child by having her wake up in a strange house. After that Mellamir let Tova spend her time with Lailawyn's daughters; it was an arrangement Mellamir had had to use in the past, when Théodred died and she had to tend the fire so much of the time, and Tova knew the family and liked them well enough. With Lailawyn looking after Tova, that was one less thing for Mellamir to concern herself with.  
  
But Mellamir's own personal darkness was the worst of all. When she lived in Fangorn Treebeard had taught her to listen to the birds and animals, and now she was glad for that skill, as the birds flying through the air above the Harrowdale sang the news, one to the other. They sang of the Prince Imrahil carrying her brother's near-dead body through the city; of the flames and her father's last cry; of the death of the man who had been more a father to her than any other as his horse fell on him; of one hobbit finding the other and dragging him to the Houses of Healing where Mellamir herself had awoken so many years before; of a wind that blew away the dark and brought mysterious ships; and of Éomer, whom she loved more than any other man, running from the White Tower to the Houses of Healing, crying his sister's name at the top of his lungs. But these were only phantoms of the truth, for even the birds could not see clearly through the dark, and no one around would have believed her news. The women of Rohan put even less trust in birds than Éomer had put in dreams.  
  
Mellamir had no way of knowing how many days had passed in the outside world, but finally the sun rose again. She had slept maybe six times but guessed more than a week must have passed, since she would work herself until she almost collapsed, not having any sun to tell her when it was time to sleep or eat. The people had long since devoured all the fruit and vegetables from that area, and finally on that morning the women of Harrowdale ate the last of their bread. Mellamir, Tova, and as many other women and girls as she could gather went out to the field, carrying any knives and baskets they could find. They cut the grass as near the ground as they could -- waste not, want not -- and gathered it into the baskets, then took it back to Dunharrow and handed it out. So it was fulfilled what the sages wrote long ago, "In the dark days you will live as the beasts of the field; on grass you shall feed your young."  
  
This went on for five days, until they had eaten all the grass that they could find within a day's hike of Dunharrow. It was the seventh day after the sun had returned, and the women still needed food. Mellamir talked long with Lailawyn and the other women about what to do.  
  
"We have come to it, at last," Mellamir said. "You and your children are starving, yet not far from here stand ten horses. They are lean, for we have eaten their grass, but they may feed us yet for a few days. Who will come with me and slaughter one?"  
  
The women were silent for a long time. At last Lailawyn answered matter-of-factly, "We do not eat our horses."  
  
"In normal times, yes, I understand, for they are noble beasts, but --"  
  
"You do not understand, lady of Gondor," Lailawyn answered, a note of hostility creeping into her voice. "My husband was killed by the Orcs several years ago. These Orcs came not from Saruman but from Sauron himself, and they attacked because we refused to trade horses to Mordor. We do not eat our horses."  
  
"It is the choice between that and starving," Mellamir replied once again, as if that should settle the matter. "So who will go with me? Or will your husband have died for naught?"  
  
Lailawyn nodded slowly. She understood. That morning Mellamir and three women went to the fields. There they killed two of the horses and carried the meat back to Dunharrow. This meat they boiled in a soup and served to the people, along with moss the children gathered from the nearby woods. Thus the women and children of Rohan survived for four days until all the horses were slaughtered.  
  
The fifth day was the day of the fiery sky. That afternoon, in the seventh hour, the ground shook and the people heard crashes far away in the distance. Then suddenly the sky turned a brilliant red, starting on the eastern horizon and spreading across the rest of the sky, redder than the hottest fire. Suddenly Mellamir saw a great forest -- no, trees moving! Huorns! -- and then those same Huorns, gashed deep, and some of them burned black as charcoal. And then she was in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith where she saw Éowyn lying, pale as death, and Aragorn bowing beside her, crying into her cold hands. And then two hobbits -- not the two she had met in Isengard, though they wore similar cloaks -- crawling up a tall mountain, one on the others' back; and finally one lay near the top of the mountain, his hand badly bleeding, the other trying desperately to wake him, and an eagle circling overhead.  
  
And then Mellamir was back in Dunharrow. It had all been a dream, or a vision, and she didn't know what it meant. But she knew what she had to do. She had to get to Minas Tirith, but she didn't know how. Was it safe to cross the plains, all by herself? Even if she had a horse; but she had killed Rimsul to feed the people.  
  
She looked north, up to the mountains that she knew stood between her and Fangorn, and she thought of all he had taught her of Manwë and Elbereth and the other Valar. She closed her eyes and said quietly to herself, "Oh, Powers beyond the Seas, I have never needed you like I do now. But now I do. Please, help me." She did not really know what she expected, but certainly not the answer she got: a man riding full speed out through the mountains.  
  
"Fengel!" she shouted, recognizing him as an old friend of Éomer's who had ridden with him to Gondor. "Where is Lord Éomer?"  
  
"Silence, my lady. I have urgent news." He paused, caught his breath, then continued, "Éomer sent me to find you. This was ten days hence. I rode to Pelarnir in Lebennim, then through the Paths of the Dead. Lord Aragorn released the dead from their curse, so the paths are now open. He sent me with this message: Sauron attacked Minas Tirith, but we fought him back. Denethor died of madness in a fire, and Théoden was killed by the witch king. Éowyn, Faramir, and Merry are all also near death, and they lie in the Houses of Healing in your city. Éomer has led the Rohirrim in battle to the Black Gates of Mordor, accompanied by Aragorn and all the armies of Gondor, and also with Elladan and Elrohir, his company of rangers, Legolas, Gimli, Pippin, and Gandalf -- yes, they are all safe, or were when I departed. I bring you a horse. Éomer asks that you ride to Minas Tirith as soon as you can, if not sooner, to nurse your brother and his sister. Gondor is as safe now as anywhere, even though the great gate has fallen."  
  
"The great gate!" Mellamir cried. "It must have been a terrible battle, then. Worse than you are letting on."  
  
"Aye," Fengel replied. "But the time for fear is past. You see the red in the sky." He motioned vaguely all around, for indeed the whole sky was still tinted with red. "Either all is won, or all is lost. Ride! Ride to your brother."  
  
"But what of the people? They need food..."  
  
"Look around you, Lady Mellamir," Fengel answered. "The animals that fled are already returning. And I bring three horses laden with grain. Éomer knew that you did not have food, and he has sent a gift from Gondor, for Saruman has not been burning their crops like he did ours. They are just over that last mountain; I wanted to bring you the news before I took the time to lead them over. Now ride!"  
  
Mellamir did not need to be told again. She left Fengel to watch over Dunharrow and made for the Paths of the Dead. The stone pillars that had marked the entrance were now crumbling, but they were as dark as they were when Aragorn had rode through them two weeks earlier.   
  
_Only stories_, she thought to herself. At last she steled her courage and rode toward the entrance. When her horse did not hesitate, however, her chest relaxed. "Giddyap!" she said, and her horse rode full speed into that long-forbidden pass. 


	23. Of Love Songs and Pipeweed

Lady of Gondor Ch 22 - Of Love Songs and Pipe-Weed  
  
(Warning: RotK spoilers)  
  
Late March 3019; Minas Tirith  
  
----------------------------------------------  
  
It was a cheerful spring morning in Lebennim. The birds were singing for the first time in weeks. The great eagles of the mountains had flown overhead a few hours before, bringing the news from the field in front of the Black Gate: Sauron was defeated, his ring was destroyed, and the ringbearer and his companion were safe at the Fields of Cormallen, where they were being cared for by none other than King Elessar, returned from exile in the north, whom his friends called Aragorn.  
  
But the birds (which were about all that was left in this land, the men having ridden forth with Aragorn to war and the women and children having taken refuge in the mountains to the north) stopped their song for a moment when the ground seemed to open up. Out came a single girl -- nay, a woman -- on a jet black horse. Her auburn hair was streaming in the wind, but that was the only part of her that seemed care-free. She was in a hurry, that was plain to see, and she was worried. She rode off straight for Minas Tirith, and the creatures of the field soon forgot her.  
  
It was just over a month ago that the horsemen had come riding through, up out of the ground. Thirty men and two elves all cloaked in gray, and another man, an elf, and a dwarf, cloaked in what appeared to be green, but one could never be quite sure since sometimes the colour seemed to change. Before that, none of the creatures could remember anyone ever having come from that path; neither could the old wives of the land, judging from the talk the milk-cows had overheard, and these women were good with remembering and mentioning bits of old gossip. But the riding of the thirty-five, as incredible as it was, was nothing compared to the sense of fear that rode with them. A strange wind blew all around those cloaked riders, and it seemed as if there should be thousands riding, not less than forty. But the fear passed, and the creatures slept, and they had almost forgotten about the whole incident.  
  
Then the girl rode past. The groundhog ran to his friend the fox and asked him what he thought of it. "She is one woman," he said, "and she means us no harm. Where is the wind, and the thousands? They are gone, away to the east. What does this girl have to do with them?" So the rider rode out of sight, and the groundhog returned to his hole.  
  
Mellamir made her way across the plains until at last she could see the White City, gleaming in the morning sun. But as she got closer she realized it wasn't the city she had grown up in. Its iron gates were thrown down, their frames bent. She dismounted and let her horse wander in search of pasture, and made her way along the main road, climbing over piles of rubble that blocked the road in places. Never before had the road to the Seventh Circle seemed so long! But at last she passed through that final gate and made her way across the courtyard to the Houses of Healing. She walked into the garden between the houses, looking through the windows to try and find her friends.  
  
At last she found Merry. She knew it was him because she could see his feet under the blanket only 2/3 of the way down the bed. She saw his brown curly hair (his face being turned away from the window) and his arm in a sling on top of the velvet cover. "Merry!" she hissed through the window.  
  
The hobbit turned over and she saw that it certainly was Merry, but not the Merry she remembered. He smiled at the sight of a familiar face, but weakly, and she saw the lines around his eyes; his merry dimples were gone, and as she bended through the window to get a better look the hobbit gave a cough and gasped for air. A nurse rushed in to see what the matter was and saw the woman at the window.  
  
"Now you just get out of there!" the nurse shouted. "Get out of that garden. It's not for the likes of you, you can be sure, all covered in mud and all!"  
  
"Ioreth?" Mellamir asked incredulously. "Is that you? You still breathe?"  
  
"Ioreth is my name, sure enough, but what yours is I haven't a guess."  
  
"I suppose I do look different than when you last saw me," Mellamir replied. "Fair enough. Correct me where I am wrong, lady of healing, and hold your tongue otherwise if you can. The steward Denethor is dead, burned on his own pyre. And his son Faramir is now steward in name only, being sick in this house." The nurse nodded, surprised that an apparent stranger knew so much of her business. "Then who is acting as steward now?"  
  
"Lailagond, who used to be Captain of the Guard," Ioreth answered.  
  
"Aye, I remember him," Mellamir replied. "Both of my brothers trained under him."  
  
"Then you are Gondorian?" the lady of healing asked, a sceptical look on her face.  
  
"Yes," Mellamir answered, "and more than that: I am a Númenorean. I am the one remaining blood-child of the late steward Faramir. I have been to Fangorn and to Rohan, and for the last few weeks have been shepherding Théoden's people in Dunharrow, at the request of the lady Éowyn -- who I believe you also have here. But you know me best as the little girl who survived the river south of the Pelennor, who was born Mellawen to be renamed Mellamir." At this Ioreth was struck dumb, quite a feat for someone who loved to wag her tongue as much as the old lady did. But Mellamir continued. "I am the last of the House of the Steward. My mother and the steward's brother Arabôr, whom some called Calithor, died years ago." She fought a tear, but pressed on. "My brother Boromir died at Amon Hen protecting this very halfling; my father Denethor is dead, as I have already said, and my other brother Faramir is still recuperating, unless I am much mistaken?" Ioreth nodded. "Then I take on myself the role of steward of the Stewardship until my brother is well enough to assume his stewardship himself."  
  
"Now, Miss Mellawen -- Mellamir, pardon me -- you can't go doing that. You know you've got to be a man to --"  
  
But Mellamir cut her off. "Feel free to take it up with the Steward, if you so wish."  
  
She hurried from the window and a moment later came through the doorway into the room. She folded back the blanket and looked at the hobbit. He was wearing a silk tunic, linen britches, and a sort of bootlet, velvet with leather bottoms and silk lining, like the sons of Gondor's nobility wore in the evening before they went to bed.  
  
"My first order, then, as steward of the Stewardship of Gondor, Master Meriadoc," she said with a smile, "is for you to get out of that ridiculous outfit. Don't tell me they have made you a dandy. Out! Out of that bed. Off with the shoes, and change into the clothes that were good enough for you all the way from the Shire. Don't bother with shoes; your feet don't need them, and it'll do you good to feel the soil between your toes. I will go out into the hall, to satisfy your infamous sense of modesty; come out when you're ready."  
  
She led Ioreth out of the room, then sent her to the cook-house to make up lunch bundles for the two of them. Half an hour later Merry and Mellamir were making their way back down through the city. Finally they passed the Great Wall, making their way towards the very tree where Gandalf and a young Mellawen used to smoke so long ago.  
  
Mellamir set out the blanket she had brought with her, then left to fetch some water from a nearby spring. When she returned Merry held two pipes, one in his mouth and the other in his hand. Mellamir took the second pipe and leaned back against the tree. "You can't smoke and eat at the same time, you know," she said after a moment. "Aren't you hungry?"  
  
"Hungry, yes, but not for food," he answered in a raspy voice. "Hungry for information. Explanation. And I can't talk without smoking. Conversations make me weary somehow, and smoking gives me strength. Not sure why."  
  
Mellamir was silent a minute, sniffing the air. Then she took the leather pouch where Merry kept his weed, opened it up, and brought out a dried green leaf. She put it in her mouth and swished it around, then spat it out into her handkerchief. "Athelas," she said at last. "Aragorn has mixed athelas in with your weed! But I love him for it. Wise man, he knew you might not get it any other way."  
  
"But I've been a model patient!" Merry protested. "Ioreth said so herself.  
  
"I wouldn't trust Ioreth to heal my pet rock, to say nothing of a creature as foreign to Gondor as you, Master Hobbit," Mellamir replied. "Don't get me wrong, she is a sincere woman, but a bit of a bumbler, would you not agree?"  
  
"Yes, I suppose so ..."  
  
They both sat in silence for a while until Mellamir finally asked, "What's wrong, Merry?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know," he replied. "It seems I should be better by now. But this arm ..." Then something in him snapped. The pipe fell from his mouth, spilling its ashes on the mossy ground beside them. He started sobbing, and it was a few minutes before Mellamir could calm him. She emptied her cup of water over the ashes, then took hold of Merry's shoulders and sat him in her lap, rocking him back and forth. Finally he said between hiccupy breaths, "Mella -- Mellamir -- it was -- it was awful. Wha-what -- what was he?"  
  
"You should know a bit of that, Merry," she answered. "You know of the Nine Kings of Men, don't you, and how they fell? And you, you and Éowyn, killed their leader." She shook her head in disbelief. "I still wonder at it. The Witch King of Angmar we call him in our legends, though he has many names. Let me explain it this way: you have travelled with Aragorn all the way from Breeland, have seen him handle many adventures. And I admire and respect him greatly. Yet he is no match for this Witch King. The Witch King can control when the frost comes, yet Aragorn's toes froze at Caradhras with yours. And men who see one of the Nine, they freeze -- my brothers froze, and they and only two other men out of their entire company survived when they first encountered one -- yet Aragorn and Éomer fought back the Easterlings, and almost lost.  
  
"But you, Merry -- you beat him. I don't know what possessed Éowyn to fight him; she knew what she was facing; I suppose it was madness at Théoden's death. And nothing but love of her could have drawn you to her side. Why, if it weren't for your bravery --"  
  
"I'm not brave," he interrupted.  
  
"Not brave?" Mellamir questioned. "Of course you are."  
  
"Éowyn, she was brave," Merry answered, "but me? I didn't know what I was facing. All this you've said just now, I had never heard it before."  
  
"But you had heard enough. They were so much stronger than you are, I don't think knowing exactly how strong would have really mattered. It was passion that killed them, Merry. Éowyn's love for her uncle, your love for her, and the old Northern kings who wove spells into your blade, their hate for everything evil, most of all the Witch King."  
  
Mellamir took a linen napkin from the blanket and used it to wipe away Merry's tears. "Do you understand now?"  
  
"No," he said. "But I think I'm beginning to." He smiled, and the wrinkles around his eyes began to fade away. Then he looked down at his own pipe, the fire put out by the water Mellamir had poured on it, but instead of reaching for his flint-box he laid the pipe down and looked across the blanket. "My word, are those mushrooms ...!" he cried at last, and Mellamir leaned back against the tree. Merry, however, was busy crawling across the blanket towards the basket piled high.  
  
~*~  
  
Mellamir and Merry had been too busy to notice that they weren't the only ones enjoying the fine weather that afternoon. If they would have looked back toward the city they would have seen, through the gaping torn-down places in the wall, Éowyn and Faramir walking through the fields of Pelennor.  
  
"Do you know what I've always wanted, Éowyn?" Faramir asked, stooping down and sifting some of the rich black soil through his fingers. "A garden, right here in the city."  
  
"A garden!" Éowyn said in surprise. "Why, what put that idea in your head?"  
  
"You didn't know?" he asked. "I grew up on one."  
  
"No!"  
  
"Yes. For the first twelve years of my life. You see, I'm only Denethor's adopted son; we're really his nephews, Boromir and I, and we grew up on a farm not far south of the Pelennor." He sighed contentedly. "Wonderful land. Mellamir was there for about six months before --" He stopped short, looking into Éowyn's eyes, then continued. "Mellamir, though we called her Mellawen back then, and her mother Finduilas came out to our farm one March. I was twelve at the time. You see, Mellawen had a cough, and the healers ordered fresh country air. We had plenty of that. Finduilas planted a small garden, a flower garden, and Mellawen and I, we worked in it all that summer. I think that was probably the happiest time of my life. Then that September they both died, my father Arabôr and Finduilas, in a flood. And I caused it. It was all my fault." A tear rolled down his cheek, but he ignored it and looked up at the rich blue mantle Éowyn wore. He rubbed his clean hand against its fur hem.  
  
"Éowyn, this mantle, it belonged to my mother. Ivriniel, Finduilas's sister. She died when I was three months old, was killed by an orc. I never saw her wear it, but I can't imagine that she looked half as beautiful as you do now."  
  
"So much pain," she sighed.  
  
"Yes," Faramir replied, "it was a long time ago, but sometimes at night I still hear them: the orc who broke my mother's neck, and that horrible flood that swept away my father and the woman who had become a mother to me."  
  
"Look not to the shield-maid for healing, my lord!" she laughed bitterly. "I am sorry, but my hands are rough, too accustomed to gripping the sword-hilt to be much use at anything else."  
  
"To all but one," Faramir said quietly.  
  
"To all but one," she repeated to herself.  
  
"And I'm not the one." Éowyn turned away, starting to leave, but Faramir grabbed her arm. "No, don't go, Éowyn. I know that you love Aragorn, and rightly so! He is a great man and worthy of homage. So when you saw that you loved him but he only loved that elf-maid, you swore that you would have no other master, except perhaps death: death in battle, if you could. You have hurt at least as much as I have. You have lost your own parents, as well as your uncle who you saw as a father. And more than that, you have lost the one true love of your heart." He paused. "Éowyn, I match you in all those pains, save for one. I have not yet lost the one I love, but I fear I might. I love you, Éowyn."  
  
"Pity, you mean."  
  
"No, love," he answered. "I pitied you at first, yes, but not any more. If you were as vibrant as you once were -- yes, I see the dance in your eyes -- and I had no reason to pity you, still I am sure that I would love you. Éowyn, won't you let me heal you?"  
  
"How?" she asked sceptically.  
  
"It's amazing the effect of a garden, Éowyn," Faramir answered. "Minas Tirith could use one. See, the land is free, and we do not have to hide inside this wall anymore. Let the farmers move to the outlying fields, and let us make this into a garden, with trees, and bushes, and flowers, and vines, and benches, and fountains, and statues, and paths going every which way. And let it be open to all who would come, from the milliner's son to my very own. And let there be one like it in Edoras, Lady Éowyn. And let us -- let us build them together. Then we can build our own tiny garden, far away from the world."  
  
"Oh, Faramir," Éowyn replied, "you're not a gardener, you're a -- a king! And I am rough. I could never be a queen."  
  
"Well, that's good, fair lady, because I have no a kingdom to offer you. All I want, and all I can hope for now that the king will soon return, is a little patch of land somewhere, my own, and a cheerful lady to tend it with me."  
  
Éowyn smiled and looked down at the soil. "If a garden is half you seem to think it is," she replied, "then no kingdom on earth could compare."  
  
~*~  
  
At that very hour a messenger from Ithilien rode up and, seeing Faramir lord of Gondor in the garden, rode over there. He stopped, however, for as he got closer he recognized the resemblance between the lady sitting under the tree and Faramir and, remembering Lord Éomer's description, realized this had to be the lady Mellamir, which meant the child beside her was not a child but the halfling he sought. So he dismounted, bowed, and handed Merry a letter from Éomer. Pippin was much better after nearly being crushed under a troll, and Frodo and Sam should be waking up any day. Éomer, though, missed the cheerful hobbit and wanted his page to hold his cup. He was to come as fast as he could and not worry about anything but his cloak and his pipe-weed; the rest would be provided for him in Ithilien.  
  
Mellamir ran back to the city gate to tell the guard that Lailagonde would have to take back the keys to the city until Faramir was ready to claim them, gathered her own horse and the one it had been grazing near, and rode back to the tree. The messenger put Merry on Mellamir's horse before mounting the spare, and they rode off together into the east, toward Ithilien. 


	24. Choises

Lady of Gondor Ch 23- Choices  
  
(Warning: RotK spoilers)  
  
Late March 3019; Fields of Cormallen  
  
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Mellamir and Merry rode off towards the Fields of Cormallen with Éomer's messenger, Mellamir and Merry riding the horse Fengel had given her to ride to Minas Tirith and the messenger riding a fresh horse from the royal stables.   
  
Of course he had no way of knowing it, but Merry had a much easier journey than Pippin had. Merry rode in relative comfort, on the back of a fine horse. The world was set aright as far as he knew and he was going to the fair land of Ithilien. He knew that Sam and Frodo were still unconscious there, and that was the worst of his concerns: what cruel irony for those two to destroy the ring and never wake up again to see the world they'd saved! But Merry knew they were in good hands, and that Aragorn and Gandalf would save them if anyone could. Poor Pippin, on the other hand, had left his best friend behind and taken the healers with him, away to battle.   
  
But Merry didn't know any of what Pippin had endured and how much nicer the land was already. Everywhere he looked he saw death: they would ride for hours across scorched grass where the Orcs had been, or pass what had been orchard groves, the trees uprooted and rotting on their sides. The trees that still stood were limp, like they had no life, and many had gashes along their sides, the sap bleeding out of them a sickly green. Seeing those trees made Mellamir think of Fangorn, and of Treebeard in Isengard, and she wondered how he was faring; she hadn't heard from him since she left for Dunharrow.   
  
Merry couldn't wait to reach the Fields of Cormallen, to see his friends and share the news, but Mellamir seemed content to just let the world float by. In fact, in all of her journeys, she hadn't taken as leisurely a ride since the trip from Minas Tirith back to Edoras with Éomer, after she saw her brother Boromir for the last time. Thinking of that trip reminded her of Éomer. He was a good boy, always had been -- no, a good man. He had grown a lot since she first met him, but so had she. Since then, she had ridden with wizards, talked with tree-herders, smoked pipes with hobbits, and convinced the horse-lords to slaughter their horses. For most people this would be enough. It should be enough, damn it! And she was getting on in years. Time to settle down, she told herself. Grow some roots. But then the other half of her seemed to say, not yet. There was so much she hadn't seen. She'd seen more than most people ever did, and suddenly it just wasn't enough.   
  
~*~  
  
Éomer could have been drinking to victory; he would have been in good company. The Rangers from the North had invited him to go off hunting, but he'd passed. Gimli had offered to finally correct him in his grievous misgivings about the lady of Lothlórien (on their first meeting Éomer had called her a "sorceress" and nearly lost his head to Gimli's axe for his lack of courtesy), but Éomer just brushed him off. Another day, perhaps. He wasn't interested in the lute playing, the feasting, or even in the game of lalethan (a simple game which involved hitting a chestnut with a plank of wood for the opposing teams to catch in brass cups) he had seen developing over on the south side of camp. Usually he would have been right in the middle of all the fun, and more than likely trying to do two or three things at once. But the scouts had ridden in not more than an hour ago with news that three strangers were riding in on two horses: a boy, a woman, and a man, coming from the direction of Minas Tirith.   
  
Then he saw them with his own eyes. At first he could only see the horses. One was a deep brown, the other a brilliant yellow. He saw on the yellow one a fine lady with deep auburn hair, no longer the fiery red he remembered first seeing nearly twelve years ago. As she approached he saw that the child was not a child but instead a hobbit. And the messenger, the man riding the brown horse -- was he smiling? He never smiled! But he certainly seemed to be now.   
  
As he was walking out to meet them Éomer suddenly felt a pang of guilt. He remembered, all those years ago when this Lady of Gondor first arrived in Edoras, how he had wanted to race out and meet her straight away, but his uncle Théoden had held him back. Now Théoden was dead, and so was Háma, the guard Théoden had sent out to welcome Mellamir instead. But Éomer would soon be the king; and he walked out in the direction he had seen the three riding from, because he felt like it.   
  
"My lord!" Merry called as he saw Éomer approaching. He jumped off the horse (Mellamir slowed it down when she saw Éomer coming) and bowed deeply.   
  
"You silly hobbit!" Éomer cried, laughing as he ran over. He took Merry by the shoulders, straightened him, and kneeled. "It is I who should be kneeling to you. You saved my sister's life at Pelennor. I owe you a great deal of gratitude."   
  
"Oh, no, Lord Éomer," Merry answered as Éomer stood up. I only saw a friend in danger and did what I had to, to save her if I could. I didn't really know what I was facing."   
  
"I can vouch for that, Éomer," Mellamir said, dismounting from her horse. "He questioned me for near two hours, and still he thinks he is a coward instead of a hero."   
  
Éomer frowned. "The Merry who left the Shire may have been a coward, though I can hardly believe it, what with all the stories I have heard. But this hobbit who stands before me now, he is no coward, that much I know. He was braver than all of the men of Rohan, and he saved my sister from death and protected my uncle's body from that hideous Witch King. So if Merry is a coward, then this hobbit surely is not Merry. I'll call him Holdwine, because I want him to hold my wine cup and stand beside me, as long as he wishes or fate allows.   
  
"Now, Master Holdwine," and at that name he smiled, "I have a small request to ask. It is, what, the fourth hour past dawn? Take some time, rest from your trip. But when you are ready, there is a, shall I say, difficult patient in the hospital tents. He was injured at the battle and just woke yesterday; and already he has chased away three serving-men. He misses his friends, thinks they have deserted him, and he really was too young to go to war, but he came anyway. And he's very precious to me and the other captains; we would like to see him well again. Something tells me he might react better to you than the soldiers he has been throwing his bedpans at. Will you look after him?"   
  
"Of course," Merry nodded. With that he went on ahead toward the camp. Éomer turned to Mellamir and started to hug her. After a moment, though, Mellamir pushed him away.   
  
"No, Éomer, it's not -- it's not right."   
  
"Why not? You always let me hug you before."   
  
"Before you and I were children. But you're a prince of Rohan, and I'm governor of Dunharrow and steward of Gondor, at least until Faramir's well enough to take the title back. But more importantly, you're a man and I'm a woman."   
  
So the two of them walked into camp, holding hands and talking about all that had happened since Éomer left Dunharrow.   
  
~*~  
  
An hour later Merry stood outside one of the hospital tents, wearing the linen slacks and wool tunic of the king's guard. Hirlan, the younger brother of Éomer's good friend Fengel, had presented him with the collar of the king's household, a leather collar he wore under his tunic, decorated with three horses running along a river sewn in mithril thread. He held in his left hand a wine flask and balanced in his right a bronze tray of salt pork, toasted rye bread, two fried eggs, and golden fries. He walked in and set the tray down on the table, then ducked the coffee saucer that was thrown at him. As it crashed against the tent wall and fell to the ground, breaking into several pieces, he heard his irritated patient say without turning to face him:   
  
"Have they run out of men, that they have to send boys now?"   
  
"Come now, cousin, don't tell me you're so sick that you're blind with fever."   
  
At that Pippin turned and saw what he'd really been waiting for: hope that all the bad things really were going to come undone*, that the world was going to be okay. Because there was Merry, his cousin and friend. He wasn't alone in this whole camp.   
  
Pippin sat up, put his furry feet on the ground, and tried to stand up -- but too quickly. He started coughing, bent over, and Merry ran over to him. He helped Pippin sit back down on the bed and rubbed his back until the coughing passed. "I see Lord Éomer had some sense in him," Merry said at last. "I thought the men here must have strange tastes in lunch, but this is no lunch; it is a second breakfast, and worthy of a prince of the halflings!" And they had a good laugh. Everything was going to be just fine.   
  
Éomer and Mellamir turned away from where they had been standing just beyond the entrance to the tent. Merry was healing, and now that Pippin had his best friend back he'd soon be better again as well, or as better as he would ever be.   
  
The two walked around the camp, catching up on old news. Finally Éomer said, "I didn't call you all the way from Minas Tirith for a status report, you know. I am glad Éowyn left you behind to govern the people, but now that I know of it, I'm not concerned with whatever happened back home. Maybe I should be."   
  
"So I assume you are now my king?" Mellamir asked.   
  
"Not yet," Éomer answered. "It is an old custom. The king's heir is not crowned until he has properly buried the old king. I think it was to make sure the king was properly buried. But what about you? You don't have to stay in Rohan now; it is safe for you to go anywhere."   
  
"Well, that's certainly a dangerous statement!" Mellamir exclaimed. "Anywhere, including into an Orc's den or a warg's lair? An Orc's still an Orc, even if his master is dead. But you're right. I can go most places. And I have been thinking about it. For the moment, I have to go back to Minas Tirith. I'm still the steward, until Faramir's well enough to take over. And there is much work to do. It's just us now, of our entire family. He'll need my help."   
  
"Lots of work, yes," Éomer replied, "but for you and Faramir, only one job left."   
  
"And what job, pray tell, would that be?" Mellamir asked. "Sweeping the streets or clearing the stones or rebuilding the gates or..."   
  
"No, all that has to be done. But it's not your job." Mellamir looked at him with an uncomprehending stare until at last Éomer said, "Nobody's told you. You really don't know."   
  
"Know what?" she demanded.   
  
"Mellamir," Éomer answered, "I'm no Gondorian but I would think it'd be common sense. What is the one job of the steward?"   
  
"To safeguard the kingdom," Mellamir replied. "To keep Gondor safe."   
  
"Until?" Éomer pressed.   
  
"Until the king returns," Mellamir said, "but I don't see --"   
  
"Do you remember the prophecy," Éomer answered, "that the hands of the king will be the hands of a healer? Think about it: who healed Éowyn? Who healed Faramir and Merry?"   
  
"Oh," she said at last.   
  
"So you will return to Minas Tirith for a few weeks," he asked, "present Aragorn his crown, and then what?"   
  
"Oh."   
  
"Mellamir, are you okay?" Éomer looked at her carefully, a concerned look on his face.   
  
Finally she snapped out of it, then started walking off toward the north. Éomer followed her. After a few minutes she turned east, then after three steps south, then north again, then west, until finally she spun around and collapsed into Éomer's arms. He sat her down gently on the ground, then kneeled in front of her. "Mellamir, what's wrong?"   
  
"I... "she began, "I don't know where to go." She sighed.   
  
"Well, you don't have to leave right now!" Éomer laughed. "Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?"   
  
"No, it's not that. I mean, yes, I want lunch, but it's bigger than that. I didn't think I would have to make this decision for a while yet. I don't know where to go, when Aragorn becomes king. I don't want to stay in Minas Tirith. Too many painful memories of Boromir, especially with Aragorn around. The first time I met him he brought me my brother's gloves. That is how I will always remember him. I'm sure he is a great man, but..."   
  
"He brought you your brother's gloves," Éomer finished for her. "I understand."   
  
"But where...?"   
  
"Where to go?" Éomer replied, guessing her question. "I can't answer that for you, Mellamir. You'll always have a chair at the Golden Hall. A throne, if you would take it."   
  
"What?" Mellamir asked, surprised by that last part.   
  
"Mellamir, I love you," Éomer replied tenderly. "I have loved you since I first set eyes on you, when you rode out of Fangorn toward Edoras. Uncle would not let me go to you then. But, Mellamir, even now -- when I'm away from you, I am always thinking about you. You are beautiful, you are brave, you are wise, you are noble, you are honourable. I couldn't ask for more, and I doubt I would find more, not if I searched all of Rohan and the surrounding countries as well."   
  
"What about Tova?" she said at last.   
  
"Tova?" Éomer repeated.   
  
"Tova," she answered. "The orphan I have been watching after? Or does reality enter into your fantasies?"   
  
"Oh, yes, of course," Éomer said, finally understanding the question. "Let her come and live with us. She's a fine girl."   
  
"Éomer," Mellamir replied, "I need to think. But right now what I need more than that is a plate piled high and a mug running over."   
  
Éomer nodded, then laughed. "That at least I can help you with." 


	25. The Return of the Kings

This is the LAST CHAPTER. Any and all feedback on the story as a whole, this last chapter, or any other chapter is very much welcome. Blanket praise is always appreciated. (Remember, feedback is the lembas and miruvor us authors live on.)  
  
Chapter Twenty-four: The Return of the Kings  
  
(Warning: RotK Spoilers)  
  
Mid-summer 3019; Minas Tirith and Edoras  
  
----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Faramir never got his chance to start on that garden. Three days after he took up the stewardship the scouts began bringing in news that a great host was riding up from the Fields of Cormallen. And Elessar arrived in Minas Tirith on the first of May, in the year 3019 of the Third Age.   
  
Faramir took his sister Mellamir by the arm, and they walked down Rath Dínen, the streets of the dead, toward the ancient catacombs. The king's crown still lay on the head of the last king, and they had to get it, though Faramir did not want to go to that part of town. As they passed down the street, Mellamir happened to look to her right and saw the ruin of what had been the House of the Steward, where she had buried her mother and uncle so many years earlier.   
  
"Faramir ... what happened?"   
  
Faramir looked at her, frowning. "I really don't want to talk about it."   
  
"Faramir --"   
  
"He tried to kill me, all right?" he snapped. "There!"   
  
"No, it's not all right," Mellamir replied soothingly. "Oh, Faramir." She put her hand on her brother's shoulder and looked into his eyes, and slowly his façade broke down. He lowered his head on her shoulder and cried into her dress. "Mellamir, you weren't here, you can't understand --"   
  
"But I have a right to know," she said patiently as Faramir lifted up his head. "He was my father, too."   
  
Faramir nodded. "He sent me to Osgiliath, to defend it," Faramir said slowly, then more words followed like the raging water of a broken dam. "He knew it couldn't be defended, that I would more than likely die; yet he sent me anyway. And I didn't die." He looked over at the ruins of the catacomb as he pressed on. "I was injured, mortally everyone thought, in front of the gates of Minas Tirith. They took me to Father, where I lay in a fever -- so they tell me -- for several hours. He was crazy, Mellamir. Thought that Gondor was doomed and was determined to choose how he died. He ordered his men to carry me to the tombs and build a pyre --"   
  
"What?" Mellamir shouted.   
  
"Yes, a pyre. He was going to burn us both alive. But then Gandalf arrived and saved me just in time, but... "   
  
He couldn't finish. He just stood there and stared at the ashes, all that was left of the House of the Steward. His cheeks were dry now, but his eyes burned with a fire hotter than any Mellamir had ever seen. "Oh, Faramir," she said as she stood there in shock. She knew, of course, that Denethor had died in a fire, but she hadn't known that she had almost lost her brother as well. She'd already cried all the tears she could over a father that she had not known for years, but the thought that he almost -- it made her more mad than sad, and she had to do something to take her mind off of it. "Come on, no crying today," she said, smiling weakly. "We've got a king to crown."   
  
They went to the House of the Kings and brought out the crown, and Faramir, with his sister standing proudly at his side, presented it to the king. Then Elessar said those famous words: _Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta_, accepting his kingdom with the same words the ancient Númenoreans spoke to accept theirs.   
  
A week later the elf-princes Elrohir and Elladan escorted Éomer and Éowyn back to Edoras, where they had to clean up the city so that it would be fitting for Théoden's last return. With Éomer gone, Mellamir thought she might finally have the time to think about what she wanted to do now that she had the freedom to do it, especially concerning Éomer's wedding proposal. Elessar, however, had other plans: scouts told him that the elves were on the move again, elves from Lothlórien and Rivendell, coming towards Minas Tirith.   
  
First things first: Faramir had wanted to work on the public garden, and Elessar approved of the idea, but now with his wedding guests coming he had Faramir and Legolas clean up the Pavilion of the White Tree in the Seventh Circle. Gimli worked with the city's artisans, relaying the cobblestone streets and rebuilding the Great Gates. All of this was just temporary: Legolas and Gimli had promised to rebuild the city and improve it, with the help of Elves and Dwarves from their homelands. But that would have to wait until after the wedding, because Arwen was coming, the elf-maiden that Elessar loved and had wished to marry for many years. Her father Elrond had refused to let them marry until Elessar was king of Gondor and Arnor, and now that he was, she was coming to marry him.   
  
One day in late June Elessar and Gandalf set out before dawn up Mindolluin, the mountain behind Minas Tirith. When they finally came back Elessar carried a young sapling. Most of the people in town didn't recognize it; even Faramir couldn't place what it was, though he felt it must be important. But Mellamir knew: the White Tree of Gondor! She had seen pictures of it often enough, and her father had told her all about it, almost since the day she was born. She helped Elessar dig up the old tree and bury it in the Houses of the Dead, then plant the new one. Now that the White Tree bloomed, perhaps Gondor would bloom again, too?   
  
Mellamir did not have much time to sit and think about all this, though. Elessar knew all about her work in Rohan, how she'd organized an army and fed a people when no one else could. He desperately needed someone like her to help organise his wedding. Minas Tirith had been nearly destroyed by Sauron's army, and his Elvish guests wouldn't see her at her prime, but he could at least make sure the wedding itself was perfect. And, typical of men, this meant finding the perfect person to whom to delegate. Mellamir sent the boys and girls out into the fields to find the most beautiful wild flowers, then had the old women of the Seventh Circle arrange them; she hadn't had time to start a flower garden, so this was the best she could do. For the food she sent messages throughout the countryside for anyone with any stores left to open them up. Food was naturally a hobbit's department, so she put Pippin and his friend Beregond (who the hobbit had served with in the Gondorian army) in charge of the food stores, Pippin because food was his natural specialty and Beregond to keep Pippin from eating all the donations. One day that week Mellamir and Legolas went off into the woods outside Minas Tirith and gathered everything Legolas thought might make Elves feel at home. They brought back tree boughs, pine cones, birds' nests, wild flowers, and vines. Then they decorated the most spacious suites with the largest balconies for all of their coming guests. For Elrond's room they found several old oil paintings of the First Age, and for Galadriel's room fragrant candles.   
  
But her greatest work was in the pavilion outside the White Tower, where Elessar had planted the White Tree. She collected the best cherry trees she could find and had the royal carpenters build a gazebo. It had seven sides, one for each of the seven lands that had helped overthrow Sauron: Lothlórien, Mirkwood, Gondor, Rohan, Fangorn, Erebor, and, most importantly, the Shire. The carpenters fashioned wooden flowers along the sides that held candles. The roof was carved of oak with beams connecting the seven corners, and on each beam was a star; the rest was a frosted glass that beneath the moon cast a silver light on the inside of the gazebo. And on the ground at each of the seven corners Mellamir had the carpenters build raised platforms.   
  
So that long-awaited day finally came. There was dancing and feasting, and minstrels sang of all that had happened in recent years, but especially of Arwen and Elessar, and how they had first come to know each other, of Elessar's childhood in Rivendell as Elrond's son, and how the two had first pledged themselves to each others beside the banks of the Nimrodel in far-off Lothlórien. The best of food and drink was constantly available, Pippin having taken his responsibilities as a knight of Gondor very seriously. The hobbits, though not an official attraction of course, were extremely popular, and those people not from Minas Tirith were amazed to see legends walking down the marble streets. Down in the Pelennor below a menagerie had been assembled, with specimens from throughout the world of men. Exotic fish from Umbar, and heavy-furred pack-animals from as far away Rhûn, and of course oliphaunts from Harad and horses of every hue from Rohan. And every hour the different territories brought their tribute to the seventh circle, fine silk from Khand and tanned leather from Dunland, the best of wine from Dorwinion, and cunning metalwork from Nurn. The celebrations extended on into the night, until at last Falagond, the royal speaker, announced that it was time for the wedding of Arwen and Elessar.   
  
The people went into the Seventh Circle and took their seats. Elessar stood under the gazebo, bathed in moonlight, and waited. On the stands at the bases of the seven corners stood Elessar's dearest friends, representing the seven kingdoms: Gimli represented the Lonely Mountain; Mellamir represented Fangorn (being the closest thing to an Ent who was small enough to fit on the step); Éomer, Rohan; Faramir, Gondor; Legolas, Mirkwood; Galadriel, Lothlórien; and Frodo, the Shire.   
  
Finally a bell somewhere in the city chimed midnight. Into the square walked Elrond and his daughter Arwen. Elrond wore a white tunic with golden embroidery, a tunic that had belonged to his house since the First War of the Ring; and the embroidery was Elvish script, telling the family history. He also wore pale green silk britches that fell loosely over his white satin shoes, and a crown of interconnecting knots, one gold and the next mithril, adorned his head.   
  
Arwen wore what Elessar was convinced must be the most beautiful dress he had ever seen. She had two sleeves, a shoulder of rose satin organza and under that a full-length sleeve of pale green silk that tapered out at the wrist. As is the custom in Gondor Elessar had asked Gandalf, acting in lieu of his own father, to offer Arwen a gift on the morning of their wedding: the evenstar pendant that she had given Elessar years earlier. Arwen now wore this gem, as well as a ring of the elenaur flowers adorned her hair, brought by her grandmother Galadriel from Lothlórien, as a crown; her long brown hair fell freely down her back, and the elf wore no other ornamentation. Elrond walked Arwen to the threshold and then they took their places: Arwen inside with Elessar, Elrond beside Gandalf in front of the gazebo.   
  
Gandalf, as Elessar's oldest and best friend and as the victorious leader of the assault against the Black Gate, conducted the ceremony in the Common Tongue; and Elrond repeated what Gandalf said in Quenya, the high Elvish speech. Pippin, knight of the White Tower, stood next to the entrance to the gazebo and held Elessar's sword, for according to Gondorian custom a man must be at peace at least on his wedding night and could not hold any weapons during the ceremony.   
  
A bell rang somewhere in the city, and the Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth approached, followed by a boy not more than twelve carrying on a white satin pillow with two gold bands and a silver crown on it. Imrahil reached down and handed Elessar the crown, which Elessar then placed on Arwen's head over the wreath of elennaur. "Elven-princess you were, but now Queen of Men you become today," he said, to which Arwen replied, "And Queen of Men I am glad to become and to remain."   
  
Then the Prince took the pillow from the boy and held it in front of Elessar and Arwen. Elessar took one ring into his right hand. He tenderly reached down with his left and held Arwen's right hand level as he slipped the ring onto her fair finger. "With this simple circle I bind myself to you, heights and depths making one perfect whole." Arwen then reached down and similarly slid the other ring onto Elessar's waiting hand, saying, "With this ring I bind myself to thee, my lord, in this current sphere and beyond the circles of time."   
  
Merry stood on the other side of the entrance, wearing the ceremonial uniform of a rider of Rohan and the king's collar Éomer had gifted him at Cormallen, and, after Gandalf and Elrond had completed the ceremony, pulled out a small horn and blew a long clear blast. Samwise stood up and walked forward. Then, in a voice clearer than anyone would have imagined was his, he sang:   
  
~*~  
  
_Estel wandered through Elrond's lands,  
  
Before he was called Dunadan,  
  
And there he saw Undomiel,  
  
The fairest maiden yet to dwell.   
  
Forty and nine long years then passed  
  
Before they stood on Amroth's grass.  
  
He left that land to meet his fate,  
  
Became a king both wise and great._  
  
And Sam continued for twenty more verses, until he told the story of Arwen and Elessar in full. And when he finished, those who had not heard the story were crying, and those who had were touched by the tail and of all it told, but also that such a fair voice and tale could come from so ruddy a creature.   
  
~*~  
  
King Elessar's many guests stayed in Minas Tirith together for some time. Finally Frodo went to Elessar and Arwen and said he wanted to see Bilbo again, so Elessar and Arwen decided to travel with their friends as far as Edoras. Éomer and Éowyn went to Rath Dínen and took Théoden's body so that they could carry it back to Rohan for burial with his fathers. Elessar and Arwen came, as did Éowyn and Éomer, Faramir and Mellamir, Legolas and Gimli, Gandalf, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin, and all the Elves of Lothlórien and Rivendell who had come to Arwen's wedding. The trip was without incident, what with so large a party and the world so much safer, but their pace was leisurely, and Mellamir finally had the time to think: what in the world was she going to do now?   
  
She had to make a decision, and soon. She could go back to Minas Tirith with Elessar and Arwen, or she could go to Edoras and stay with Éomer, Éowyn, and Faramir, maybe go with Faramir and Éowyn to Ithilien eventually. She could always go on with Gandalf and the Hobbits to wherever it was they were going, see this Shire at last, but what would she do there? Did she really want to be so far from everything she ever knew? None of these ideas really appealed to her, for some reason, and she decided she wanted to talk to Treebeard. He was wise, and he would know what she should do.   
  
Finally they arrived at Edoras. The travellers set Théoden in the barrow that had long been prepared for him, beside the barrows of his father, and then those present walked up to Meduseld, to the cold stand in the centre of the courtyard. Éomer lit the flame and, as the smoke wafted to the heavens, a great billowing cloud, Éomer said, "Halle Théoden cyning!" The line was repeated by all those around, and then those present left Éomer to the first watch of the flame, his right and his duty.   
  
Several hours afterwards Éowyn gave a feast where the minstrels sang of all the kings of Rohan, all the way back to Éorl, the first king. After everyone drank to Théoden's safe journey, Éomer stood up.   
  
"I bring you glad news," he began. "Today is a sad day because today I bury my uncle and take on his crown. I would, of course, rather have him than a thousand crowns, but as that is not possible, I will do my best to honour his memory. I will be a good king to the best of my ability, and try to protect all that he held dear.   
  
"All that he held dear sits right here in this room. He loved you, people of Rohan and people of Gondor. And though he did not know the other people here, I am sure he wished nothing but the best of fortune for you as well because my uncle loved the light and hated the dark, and you are all here because you felt the same way.   
  
"But there's one of us that I believe he loved more than anyone else, myself included: my sister Éowyn. I do not doubt he loved her like a daughter. She was always here for him, which is more than I may say of myself, as duty often called me elsewhere. And I hope that perhaps I may help make Théoden's memory a joy by bringing happiness to the one he loved so much on this day of sadness.   
  
"People of Rohan, sitting at the right hand of my sister Éowyn is Faramir, steward of Gondor and only surviving son of Denethor, whom Théoden rode to war to aid. Now Éowyn has come to me and asked of me a great favour, which I am happy to grant her: she loves Faramir, and they wish to be married. This will take her away from me to Ithilien, yet such things are natural, the sundering of brother and sister as each becomes husband or wife. And she will always have a seat at the Golden Hall, whenever fortune may allow her to take it.   
  
"Now, if I may, a toast. Halle Faramir! Halle Éowyn!" And the whole room was filled with raised glasses and cries of "Halle!" in unison as the many guests drained their cups. Yet before they could start talking again, a voice rang out from the head table. "I too have a wish for my brother Faramir and my dearest friend Éowyn." Mellamir stood up and walked around to the other side of the table. There she curtsied, took Faramir's left hand, and placed it in Éowyn's right hand. Then, instead of continuing her speech, she began to sing:   
  
_Boromir heard a voice in the West and sought for Rivendell;  
  
Passed under hill and through elven-wood; in Argonath's shadow he fell.  
  
Besieged by orcs and uruks foul, in a fight he could not win,  
  
His last desp'rate blow on his now-cloven horn brought news to nearest kin.   
  
But Denethor had a second son that the fates might now demand,  
  
And as war approached he sent his son to the last defence of Man.  
  
Osgiliath fell to the orcs; Faramir fled back 'cross Pelennor.  
  
The steward's son was struck down at last at Minas Tirith's door.   
  
Now Éowyn left the Golden Hall, led her people to Harrowdale  
  
And waited for news of Helm's Deep's siege as the long Morgul shadow fell.  
  
Then brother and father and Riders brave arrived there from Helm's Deep  
  
And also one halfling, Merry Brandybuck, entrusted to their safe keep.   
  
Merry wished to follow his lord, down to brutal Pelennor,  
  
But Théoden King said he'd be but a weight on the road to far Gondor,  
  
For that very night news came from the south in the form of the fabled red arrow:  
  
Denethor's riders sent out far and wide, now one pair stood in Dunharrow   
  
"Ride now, my allies, to ruinous endings," so Denethor's messenger said,  
  
"Ride quick as can be, else 'ere you come you will find naught but the dead."  
  
So Merry rode out a little ways to see the Riders away,  
  
And Dernhelm declared that courage so stout would not be refused that day.   
  
They rode the miles to ruin and wrath, bought glory with lives of men,  
  
Where terror would reign and kinsmen would die before love proved its might in the end.  
  
"I fear not mortal man," said that monster of old, essence of Sauron's might;  
  
"But no man am I, so leave him or die," she answered the lord of the night.   
  
What halfling began the shield-maiden finished; old sinews gave way to the wind  
  
Yet they breathed the black breath that none could heal, save perhaps a king of men.  
  
And as the many rode forth to the Gate, in a battle doomed to fail,  
  
Éowyn awoke from her Morgul-wounds in that house that to her was a jail.   
  
Our fair lord and lady walked through the gardens 'twixt Houses of Healing,  
  
One whose heart was stolen by love, the other's frozen unfeeling.  
  
They walked and talked long hours each day, till he saw the hurts she would hide;  
  
And one fair day at the hour of dusk, she laid her shield ever aside.   
  
As the spring thaw swept through the world and victory came unhoped for,   
  
And Barad-dûr crumbled and all the hosts fled and the Dark Lord fell in Mordor,  
  
Éowyn and Faramir promised the love they now pledge anew today;  
  
May they have all due them for beauty and honour: a peace that will never fade 'way. _  
  
With that Mellamir returned to her seat, but no one offered any toast beyond that. What could have possibly compared?   
  
~*~  
  
That evening Éomer asked Mellamir again what she planned to do. They were standing at the base of the tower where Éomer had first seen her when she rode out from Fangorn.   
  
"What will you do now, Mellawen? Do you mind that I call you that? I heard your brother using it today, and it's a beautiful name."   
  
"No," she said with a warm smile. "Mellamir was a childish name. I only really needed it growing up back in Minas Tirith. For a long time now I have only used it out of habit."   
  
"Mellawen. So what will you do now?" She looked out across the field, bent down, and picked up some of the loose soil, sifting it through her hand. Off in the distance she saw a stag running across the field and a bird flying through the air. The bird made a strange call, and she could almost hear words in it. Strange words. The bird sang in a low voice a long list of names. Lalaithen. Malamë. Ruastia. And finally a name Mellamir recognized: Fimbrethil.   
  
"The world is changing," she said at last. "I can hear it on the wind, I can see it in the trees, I can fill it in the soil. The old world is passing, and the new world is coming. Éomer, your day has arrived."   
  
"I know," he replied in a soft voice. "Not just my day, though. Our day. Mellawen, will you not become my queen? Marry me, please!"   
  
But slowly Mellawen shook her head, a tear rolling down her cheek. "Your day, Éomer. Not mine. I have tasted the Ent-draught, remember? It affects different people different ways. You saw how tall Merry was compared to Frodo. For Hobbits, so close to the earth already, it makes them spring up. But for Men, who have almost forgotten our roots, it helps us remember. I'm afraid... Éomer, your great task is over, but I think mine might just be beginning. Treebeard needs me. He hurts, and he needs someone to comfort him. Would you have me stay here, while a good friend needs my tender hand?   
  
"But it is more than that; I need him," Mellamir continued, hurrying to get through what she had to say now that she saw the pained look on Éomer's face. "I feel like a young sapling stretching her roots, with nothing but stones to grow into; there is no soil for me here. I need Treebeard as much as he needs me. We need each other.   
  
"That's why, when Gandalf and the others ride to Isengard, I am going with them. To find Treebeard, and go back to Fangorn with him."   
  
"So this is good-bye," Éomer said, a taste of bitterness in his voice. "Good-bye forever?"   
  
"Forever? No, I don't think so. Éomer, I have seen great things. Short hairy-footed hole dwellers who can travel all the way across Middle-earth to the heart of Mordor while the Dark Lord and all his servants are searching for them, and still destroy the one thing he needs above all else. Kings and tree-shepherds springing out of legends just when we need them the most. Old friends who die and come back. Éomer, there is more to life than meets the eye. There is something more than what you and I can see. Something tells me, Éomer, that the best is yet to come. I don't know when I will return, but I feel sure that I will see you again, in this golden hall or in the one that lies beyond."   
  
"Good-bye, Mellawen."   
  
"No good-byes, Éomer. We will see each other again somehow. Life's but a journey, and the same road that leads to Isengard leads right back again."   
  
"Safe journey, then," he said with a smile. And he kissed Mellawen on her cheek and walked off.   
  
The next morning Mellawen set off with Gandalf and his companions for Fangorn, and whatever lay beyond.  
  
~FIN~ 


	26. Appendix A

Appendix A: Who's Who  
  
The following are my own descriptions of places, characters, and other concepts, both those from Tolkien and my own inventions.  
  
Afterborn = name of the Elves for Men, referring to the fact that Elves were created before Men  
  
Algoras = town in the Westfold  
  
Amon Dîn = a fire-beacon of Gondor  
  
Amon Hen = location on the banks of the Anduin where Boromir was killed  
  
Anárion = a son of Elendil  
  
Anduin = major river between Gondor and Mordor  
  
Andúril = the name by which Narsil was known after it was reforged  
  
Angmar = region of the north used as a base for the Witch King  
  
Anórien = a region of northern Gondor  
  
Arabôr = brother of Denethor, son of Ecthelion, wife of Ivriniel, and father of Boromir and Faramir  
  
Aragorn = exiled king of Gondor who served as advisor to Ecthelion II under an assumed name  
  
Arathorn = father of Aragorn  
  
Argonath = carved cliff-faces   
  
Arnor = ancient kingdom of Men to the north of Gondor; long since fallen  
  
Arod = Legolas' and Gimli's horse, a gift from Théoden  
  
Athelas = a healing herb given by Aragorn to Merry  
  
Aulë = one of the Valar  
  
Baggins = major family of Hobbits  
  
Balrog = a fire-daemon  
  
Bandobras = one of the Took brothers that led the Hobbits at Green Fields  
  
Barad-dûr = Sauron's fortress in Mordor  
  
Beregond = guard of the Gondorian army who befriends Pippin  
  
Bilbo = hobbit befriended by Gandalf; went on an adventure with Dwarves and found Sauron's ring; cousin and guardian of Frodo  
  
Black Gate = one of two ways into Mordor, a heavily-guarded gate near Dagorlad  
  
Black Riders = nine kings of men given rings of power by Sauron, now entirely subjugated to his will  
  
Borlin = see Boromir  
  
Boromir I = a steward of Gondor  
  
Boromir II = older son of Arabôr and Ivriniel; adopted by Denethor; brother of Faramir  
  
Brandybucks = major family of Hobbits  
  
Brandywine = river in the Shire  
  
Bree = a city in Eriador  
  
Breelanders = natives of Bree and the surrounding area  
  
Brego = a king of Rohan  
  
Buckland = a region in the eastern part of the Shire  
  
Butterbur, Barliman = owner of The Prancing Pony in Bree  
  
Calithor = see Arabôr  
  
Caradhras = a mountain in the Misty Mountains  
  
Celeborn = an elf-lord of Lothlórien, husband of Galadriel  
  
Celebrant, Battle of the Fields of = ancient battle where Éorl led the Rohirrim; Rohan was granted independence for Éorl's role in this battle  
  
Círdan = elf who gave Gandalf his ring of power  
  
Cirion = steward of Gondor who had granted Rohan its freedom  
  
Cirith Ungol = a more secret way into Mordor, the only way besides the Black Gate; guarded by the monster Shelob  
  
Citadel = centre of Minas Tirith, circled around the Pavilion of the White Tree  
  
Common Tongue = language spoken by the various nations of Men when communicating with other Men who did not know their native language  
  
Cormallen, Fields of = encampment in Ithilien where the armies of Gondor and Rohan go after the victory at the Black Gates  
  
Dagorlad = site of a battle in front of the Black Gates, near Mordor  
  
Dale = a region far to the north, near Erebor  
  
Déagol = cousin of Gollum's that Gollum murdered in order to get Sauron's ring  
  
Denethor = steward of Gondor, husband of Finduilas, and father of Mellamir, Boromir, and Faramir  
  
Dernhelm = name Éowyn assumes when she joins the Riders of Rohan  
  
Dimrill vale = valley outside Moria  
  
Dol Amroth = principality of Gondor where Finduilas and Ivriniel grew up  
  
Drogo = common hobbit name  
  
Druadan = forest in Gondor  
  
Dúnedain = group of rangers descended from the kings of Arnor that protect the Shire and other regions of Eriador  
  
Dunharrow = mountain refuge where Éowyn led the people from Edoras  
  
Dunland = region of wildland inhabited by enemies of Rohan  
  
Dunlanders = wildmen Saruman convinced to attack Rohan  
  
Dwarves = a race created by Aulë, one of the Valar; they live longer than Men but not forever  
  
Dweinlunde = tutor of Boromir, Faramir, and Mellamir  
  
Eärnil = a king of Gondor  
  
Eärnur = a king of Gondor  
  
Easterlings = tribe of men who serve Sauron  
  
Ecthelion II = father of Denethor and Arabôr  
  
Edoras = capital of Rohan  
  
Eilenach = a fire-beacon of Gondor  
  
Elbereth = one of the Valar  
  
Eldar = see Elves  
  
Elendil = a king of Gondor  
  
Elessar = see Aragorn  
  
elevenses = a meal eaten by hobbits around eleven o'clock, between second breakfast and luncheon  
  
Elladan = son of Elrond and twin brother of Elrohir  
  
Elledurm = Rohirric farmer who brings Tova to Edoras  
  
Elrohir = son of Elrond and twin brother of Elladan  
  
Elrond = half-elf who governs Rivendell; father of Arwen  
  
Elves = one of two races created by Ilúvatar, they were designed to live forever  
  
Emyn Muil = hills along the edge of Rohan, near Amon Hen  
  
Ents = race of tree-herders created by Yavanna, one of the Valar  
  
Entwash = river flowing out of Fangorn into the Anduin  
  
Éomer = nephew of Théoden, cousin of Théodred, and brother of Éowyn  
  
Éorl = first king of Rohan  
  
Éorlingas = elite corps of Riders of Rohan  
  
Éowyn = niece of Théoden, cousin of Théodred, and sister of Éomer  
  
Erebor = Dwarf settlement north of Dale  
  
Ered Nimrais = range of mountains against which Minas Tirith is built  
  
Eregion = region of Middle-earth where the rings of power were forged long ago  
  
Eriador = the wildlands between the Misty Mountains and the Shire; Arnor was in this region, but Eriador is larger  
  
Erkenbrand = commander of the forces in the Westfold  
  
Falagond = son of Falastur and official speaker of Minas Tirith at the end of the book  
  
Falastur = official speaker of Minas Tirith at the beginning of the book  
  
Fallohides = one of three clans of the Hobbits  
  
Fangorn = forest bordering Rohan where the Ents live; also a name for Treebeard  
  
Faramir = younger son of Arabôr and Ivriniel; adopted by Denethor; brother of Boromir  
  
Farlin = see Faramir  
  
Fellowship = company of nine who leave Rivendell to destroy Sauron's ring; included Gandalf, Boromir, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin  
  
Fengel = friend of Éomer he sends to bring news to Mellamir  
  
Ferumbras = one of the Took brothers who led the Hobbits at Green Fields  
  
Fimbrethil = one of the Ent-maidens, whom Treebeard befriended long ago  
  
Finduilas = wife of Denethor, sister of Ivriniel and Imrahil, and mother of Mellamir  
  
Finglas = an Ent  
  
Firefoot = Éomer's horse  
  
Fladrif = an Ent  
  
Frodo = nephew of Bilbo who inherits Sauron's ring  
  
Galadriel = an elf-lady of Lothlórien, wife of Celeborn  
  
Galdor = an elf at the Council of Elrond  
  
Gandalf = a wizard in Minas Tirith during Mellamir's childhood  
  
Ghân-buri-Ghân = swarthy man living in Druadan Forest  
  
Gil-galad = an elf-warrior at the time of the Last Alliance  
  
Gimli = son of Glóin who joins the Fellowship  
  
Gladden Fields = fields where Isildur was killed and Sauron's ring was lost  
  
Glóin = father of Gimli and lord of the Dwarves at Erebor  
  
Glorfindel = an elf-warrior of the time of Eärnur  
  
Golden Hall = see Meduseld  
  
Gollum = a hobbit who found Sauron's ring five hundred years before Bilbo did  
  
Gondor = a nation of Men  
  
Gondorian = native of Gondor  
  
Great Eye = symbol of Sauron  
  
Great West Road = road joining Minas Tirith and Edoras  
  
Green Fields, Battle of the = only battle to ever take place inside the Shire at the time of this story  
  
Grey Pilgrim = see Denethor  
  
Gríma = see Wormtongue  
  
Gwaihir = one of the Eagles (the Eagles are Maiar who serve Manwë)  
  
Halbarad = one of the Dúnedain, a good friend of Aragorn  
  
Halbarath = servant of Denethor who brings Mellawen a dress  
  
Halfling = see Hobbit  
  
Háma = a high-ranking guard in Rohan  
  
Harad = principality of Gondor that sent gifts to Aragorn's and Arwen's wedding  
  
Haradrim = tribe of men that serve Sauron  
  
Harfoots = one of three clans of the Hobbits  
  
Harrowdale = valley near Edoras containing the refuge of Dunharrow  
  
Hasufel = Aragorn's horse, a gift from Théoden  
  
Healing, Houses of = circle of houses around a garden where Gondor's nobility recuperated from sickness and injury  
  
Helm Hammerhand = the horn of Helm's Deep  
  
Helm's Deep = mountain refuge where Théoden and his men fought Saruman's army  
  
Hirgen = Gondorian messenger who brings the Red Arrow  
  
Hirlan = soldier of Rohan who brings Merry a uniform  
  
Hobbits = a race of unknown origin known for their short height and resilience to evil  
  
Holbytla = singular of Holbytlan  
  
Holbytlan = see Hobbit  
  
Holdwine = name given by Éomer to Merry  
  
Huorns = trees taught to move and talk by the Ents  
  
Ilúvatar = supreme deity of Middle-earth. The creator of the Valar and the Maiar who, as instructed by Him, created the rest of the world  
  
Imladris = see Rivendell  
  
Imrahil = brother of Ivriniel and Finduilas, the Prince of Dol Amroth  
  
Ingold = a guard at the outer gate of Minas Tirith  
  
Ioreth = nurse in the Houses of Healing  
  
Isembras = one of the Took brothers that led the Hobbits at Green Fields  
  
Isen = river between Isengard and Rohan  
  
Isengard = valley to the west of Rohan  
  
Isengrim = legendary Hobbit  
  
Isildur = king of Gondor  
  
Isildur's Bane = Sauron's ring  
  
Ithilien = a land east of the Anduin, disputed between Gondor and Mordor  
  
Ivriniel = wife of Arabôr, mother of Boromir and Faramir, and sister of Imrahil and Finduilas  
  
Khand = principality of Gondor that sent gifts to Aragorn's and Arwen's wedding  
  
Khazad-dûm = bridge in Moria the Fellowship crossed. Gandalf fought a Balrog there and fell with the Balrog into the abyss below  
  
Kings, House of the = catacombs in Rath Dínen where the ancient kings of Gondor and their close family were interred  
  
Kinstrife = civil war in Gondor two thousand years before this story  
  
Lady of Gondor = hereditary title given to the wife of the steward or, in her absence, the oldest woman of his house  
  
Lagoric = man who works in the stables in Edoras  
  
Lailagond = captain in the Tower Guard  
  
Lailawyn = noblewoman of Edoras who watches over Tova  
  
Last Alliance = alliance of Men and Elves that challenged Sauron three thousand years before this story  
  
Last Homely House = see Rivendell  
  
Lalaithen = an Ent-wife  
  
lalethan = game popular in Middle-earth similar to baseball  
  
Laurelindorean = see Lothlórien  
  
Leaflock = see Finglas  
  
Lebennim = region in southern Gondor connected to Rohan by Paths of the Dead  
  
Legolas = son of Thranduil that joins the Fellowship  
  
Lindala = a Southron girl fancied by teenage Denethor  
  
Lithienal = a fort where soldiers and farmers could buy small luxuries near Arabôr's farm  
  
Lórien = see Lothlórien  
  
Lothlórien = Elvish kingdom north of Fangorn, home of Celeborn and Galadriel  
  
Mablung = farmer who lives near where Finduilas and Arabôr drowned  
  
Maiar = the helpers of the Valar  
  
Malamë = an Ent-wife  
  
Manwë = one of the Valar  
  
Mathom = term native to the Shire, designating an object with no particular use but which one does not wish to throw away  
  
Mearas = line of horses bred in Rohan, normally ridden by members of the king's household  
  
Meduseld = palace of Edoras  
  
Melkor = one of the Valar who fell and became the first Dark Lord; similar to Satan  
  
Mellamir = title character; daughter of Denethor and Finduilas  
  
Mellawen = see Mellamir  
  
Melonef = Boromir's horse  
  
Men = one of two races created by Ilúvatar, they were designed to live for a short while and die  
  
Merry = Frodo's cousin who left the Shire with him  
  
Middle-earth = the continent where this story takes place, geographically similar to northern Europe  
  
Minas Morgul = ancient city of Gondor on the border of Mordor, long ago captured by Sauron  
  
Minas Tirith = current capital of Gondor  
  
Mindolluin = mountain against which Minas Tirith is built  
  
Mirkwood = a nation of Elves; homeland of Legolas; Sauron lived there many years before this story  
  
Misty Mountains = mountain range dividing western and eastern Middle-earth  
  
Mithrandir = a name of Gandalf used by the Elves  
  
Moot = a gathering of Ents  
  
Mordor = land east of the Anduin ruled by Sauron  
  
Morgul = characteristic of or relating to Mordor  
  
Moria = underground mine that belonged to the dwarves long ago but was since taken by the Orcs  
  
Nardol = a fire-beacon of Gondor  
  
Narsil = the sword of Elendil  
  
Nazgûl = see Black Riders  
  
Nimrodel = stream in Lothlórien where Aragorn and Arwen first pledged their love for one another  
  
Númenor = island inhabited by the Númenoreans  
  
Númenoreans = ancient race from whom the kings and stewards of Gondor are descended  
  
Nurn = principality of Gondor that sent gifts to Aragorn's and Arwen's wedding  
  
Old Forest = woods on the border of the Shire believed by Hobbits to be haunted  
  
Old Took = hobbit befriended by Gandalf  
  
Ondoher = a king of Gondor  
  
One, The = Sauron's Ring  
  
Orc = soldiers of Sauron  
  
Orodruin = volcano in Mordor  
  
Orthanc = tower of Isengard where Saruman lives  
  
Osgiliath = ancient capital of Gondor  
  
Palantír = gifts from the Elves that allowed someone looking into one to see what was happening far away  
  
Pelarnir = settlement in southern Gondor connected to Rohan by Paths of the Dead  
  
Pelennor = rich farmland inside the Rammas Echor, adjacent to the city of Minas Tirith  
  
Peredhil = half-elf; someone descended from a full-blooded man and full-blooded elf, or from two other Peredhil  
  
Periannath = see Hobbit  
  
Pippin = Frodo's cousin who left the Shire with him  
  
Prancing Pony, The = inn in Bree  
  
Primula = common Hobbit name  
  
Púkel-men = ancient race of Men who lived in what is now Rohan long before Gondor ever existed  
  
Quenya = language of the Elves used on ceremonial occasions  
  
Quickbeam = an Ent known for his hastiness  
  
Radagast = a wizard of similar rank as Gandalf  
  
Rammas Echor = wall surrounding the Pelennor and Minas Tirith  
  
Rangers = see Dúnedain  
  
Rath Dínen = street leading to the royal graveyard in Minas Tirith  
  
Rauros, Falls of = waterfall near northern border of Gondor along the Anduin  
  
Redhorn Gate = pass in the Misty Mountains  
  
Rhûn = principality of Gondor that sent gifts to Aragorn's and Arwen's wedding  
  
Rimsul = Mellamir's horse, a gift from Éomer  
  
Rivendell = household of Elrond west of the Misty Mountains  
  
Rohan = nation of Men northwest of Gondor  
  
Rohirric = adjective describing something as characteristic of or associated with Rohan  
  
Rohirrim = people of Rohan  
  
Ruastia = an Ent-wife  
  
Sackville = town in the Shire  
  
Samwise = Frodo's manservant who left the Shire with him  
  
Saralina = sister of Tova  
  
Saruman = the wizard of Orthanc who forges an alliance with Sauron  
  
Sauron = a Maiar who was corrupted and became a servant of Melkor; when Melkor was defeated Sauron became a Dark Lord in his own right  
  
Shadowfax = Gandalf's horse  
  
Shire = land of the Hobbits  
  
Sindarin = one of two languages spoken by the Elves; unlike Quenya, at the time of this story Sindarin is the everyday language of most Elves  
  
Skinbark = see Fladrif  
  
Sméagol = see Gollum  
  
Snake = derogatory nickname for Gríma  
  
Snowmane = Théoden's horse  
  
Southron = tribe of Men, many of whom served Sauron  
  
Steward = hereditary position of a noble who ruled Gondor when the king had to leave the country (for instance, in war). When Eärnur rode off to battle and did not return the steward retained control of the country (since the king simply disappeared) until the king should return  
  
Stewards, House of the = catacomb where the Stewards and their close family were buried  
  
Stone City = Minas Tirith  
  
Stoors = one of three clans of the Hobbits  
  
Stormcrow = derogatory nickname given to Gandalf by the Rohirrim  
  
Strider = see Aragorn  
  
Thengel = father of Théoden  
  
Théoden = king of Rohan, father of Théodred, and uncle and guardian of Éomer and Éowyn  
  
Théodred = prince of Rohan, son of Théoden, and cousin of Éomer and Éowyn  
  
Thorongil = see Aragorn  
  
Thranduil = father of Legolas and king of Mirkwood  
  
Tooks = one of the major families of Hobbits  
  
Tova = war-orphan from the Westfold brought to Edoras  
  
Tower Guard = elite unit of Gondor's military  
  
Tower Guard, Captain of the = officer who lead the Tower Guard, a position that normally went to the oldest son of the steward when he became of age (thirty)  
  
Towers, The = a region in the western part of the Shire  
  
Treebeard = oldest and most powerful of the Ents  
  
Umbar = principality of Gondor that sent gifts to Aragorn's and Arwen's wedding  
  
Uruk-hai = creatures bred by Saruman from evil men and Orcs  
  
Valar = the "Powers," similar to archangels. They were created by Ilúvatar and He sent them into the Void to create the world.   
  
warg = animal similar to a wolf but more fierce  
  
Westernesse = the glory and accomplishments of the Men of Númenor  
  
Westfold = western region of Rohan  
  
White Tree = a tree brought from Númenor and planted in Minas Tirith, a symbol of the kings  
  
White Tree, Pavilion of the = central court of Minas Tirith  
  
Wizard's Pupil = a derogatory nickname applied to Faramir  
  
Wizards = select group of Maiar who entered Middle-earth to fight Sauron. Includes Gandalf and Saruman  
  
Wormtongue = traitorous advisor of Théoden  
  
Yavanna = one of the Valar  
  



	27. Appendix B

App B - A Tale of Years  
  
The events in this story are set in the history created by JRR Tolkien. Therefore, a chronology detailing when events in this story and in the larger history occur may be helpful. All information is from the Appendices of _The Return of the King_, except where the event is unique to this story, in which case it is my own invention.  
  
Second Age  
  
3262: Sauron is taken as prisoner to Númenor.   
  
3319: Ar-Pharazôn assails Valinor. Downfall of Númenor. Elendil and his sons escape.  
  
3320: Sauron returns to Mordor.  
  
3430: The Last Alliance of Elves and Men is formed.  
  
3434: Battle of Dagorlad and defeat of Sauron. Siege of Barad-dûr begins.  
  
3441: Sauron overthrown; Isildur takes the One Ring.   
  
The Third Age  
  
2: Isildur is killed at the Battle of the Gladden Fields.  
  
c.1600: The first hobbits pass into the Shire.  
  
1974: Fall of the kingdom of Arnor. The kings and their families dwell in small groups in the wild and are forgotten.  
  
c. 2450: Gollum finds the One Ring near the Gladden Fields.  
  
c. 2470: Gollum leaves his family and hides in the Misty Mountains.  
  
2510: Éorl the Young rides to Battle of the Field of Celebrant, winning Rohan's independence.  
  
2852: The last White Tree of Gondor dies and no seedling can be found. The dead tree is left standing.  
  
2941: Bilbo leaves on a quest with the dwarves; as part of this quest he finds Sauron's ring in the Misty Mountains.  
  
2978: Birth of Borlin (later Boromir)  
  
2983: Birth of Farlin (later Faramir)  
  
2988: Birth of Mellawen (later Mellamir)  
  
2991: Birth of Éomer  
  
2995: Birth of Éowyn  
  
2996: Death of Arabôr and Finduilas  
  
2998: Mellamir leaves Minas Tirith for Fangorn.  
  
c. 3000: Saruman first uses the palantír of Orthanc and forges an alliance with Mordor  
  
3001: Bilbo leaves the Shire for Rivendell and gives his ring to Frodo  
  
3008: Mellamir leaves Fangorn and travels to Edoras, where she becomes guest of Théoden.  
  
3017: Gollum is captured by Aragorn and Gandalf. He is questioned by Gandalf and taken by Aragorn to Mirkwood.  
  
3018  
  
20 June: Osgiliath falls to Mordor  
  
late June: Mellamir dreams of Gandalf's imprisonment and leaves Edoras for Minas Tirith with Éomer  
  
4 July: The Council of Denethor that sends Boromir to Rivendell.  
  
10 July: Gandalf imprisoned in Orthanc.  
  
August: Éomer and Mellamir arrive back in Edoras. Éomer is sent to the Westfold to seek signs of orcs.  
  
18 September: Gandalf escapes from Orthanc.  
  
19 September: Gandalf arrives at Edoras. Over the next few days he tames Shadowfax and leaves for the North.  
  
23 September: Frodo and his friends leave the Shire.  
  
29 September: Frodo meets Aragorn in Bree and the five depart for Rivendell.  
  
October: Tova arrives in Edoras. Théodred is sent to the Westfold.  
  
20 November: Frodo reaches Rivendell  
  
25 November: Council of Elrond  
  
25 December: Fellowship departs from Rivendell  
  
3019  
  
25 February: Théodred is mortally wounded in battle.  
  
26 February: Boromir dies in battle with orcs; the Fellowship is broken.  
  
27 February: Éomer returns to Edoras with Théodred. Théodred dies shortly after arriving in Edoras. Éomer is banished.   
  
30 February: Entmoot begins.  
  
2 March: Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli come to Edoras.  
  
3 March: Battle of Helm's Deep. The fall of Isengard.  
  
5 March: Théoden, Gandalf, and company reach Isengard. Gandalf breaks Saruman's staff and casts him from their order. Pippin looks into Orthanc palantír and Gandalf takes him to Minas Tirith. Mellamir rides with rest of company to Helm's Deep.  
  
6 March: Aragorn reveals himself to Sauron in palantír and decides to part company with Théoden.  
  
9 March: Aragorn and friends take the Paths of the Dead. Gandalf reaches Minas Tirith. Théoden's company reaches Dunharrow at dusk.  
  
10 March: Théoden sets out with Rohan's army for Gondor.  
  
13-15 March: Battle of the Pelennor. Death of Denethor and Théoden, defeat of Witch King by Éowyn and Merry.  
  
25 March: Battle in front of the Black Gates by armies of Gondor and Rohan against those of Mordor. Frodo destroys the Ring.  
  
8 April: Frodo and Sam honored at Cormallen.  
  
1 May: Crowning of Aragorn  
  
25 May: Aragorn and Gandalf find the White Tree.  
  
15 July: Marriage of Aragorn and Arwen.  
  
19 July: Funeral escort of Théoden returns to Edoras.  
  
10 August: Funeral of Théoden and announcement of betrothing of Éowyn and Faramir.  
  



	28. Appendix C

Appendix C: Are We There Yet?  
  
As complex as the families are, the lands can be even more confusing. Maps of third-age Middle-earth are readily available in most volumes of Tolkien's work, Karen Fonstad's Atlas of Middle-earth, or online at http://www.taylorcustom.com/localinks/mearth/mearthmap.html.  
  
For more detailed information I suggest the following links.  
  
Eriador - http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/e/eriador.html  
  
Gondor - http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/g/gondor.html  
  
Middle-earth - http://www.glyphweb.com/m/middle-earth.html   
  
Minas Tirith - http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/e/emynarnen.html  
  
Misty Mountains - http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/m/mistymountains.html  
  
Mordor - http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/m/mordor.html  
  
You also may enjoy the following illustrations.  
  
Edoras - http://www.john-howe.com/portfolio/gallery/details.php?image_id=64  
  
Éowyn and the Nazgûl - http://www.john-howe.com/portfolio/gallery/details.php?image_id=65  
  
Gandalf and the Balrog - http://www.john-howe.com/portfolio/gallery/details.php?image_id=413  
  
Helm's Deep - http://www.john-howe.com/portfolio/gallery/details.php?image_id=73  
  
Minas Tirith - http://www.john-howe.com/portfolio/gallery/details.php?image_id=408  
  
Orthanc Destroyed - http://www.john-howe.com/portfolio/gallery/details.php?image_id=314  
  
The Argonath - http://www.john-howe.com/portfolio/gallery/details.php?image_id=86  
  
Treebeard - http://www.john-howe.com/portfolio/gallery/details.php?image_id=108  
  
Watchful Peace - http://www.john-howe.com/portfolio/gallery/details.php?image_id=503 


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